The Reading at Sunset

The old woman's fingers traced the lines on my palm like she was reading a map to somewhere I didn't want to go. Her eyes, clouded with cataracts, seemed to see everything.

"You have a分裂 heart," she said, her voice cracking. "Two paths. One leads to water, one to fire."

I laughed, but the sound died in my throat. We were at a resort in Cabo,Sarah and I. Our tenth anniversary trip. I'd come to the beach alone to escape the suffocating silence of our suite. Sarah was at the pool, probably on her third mai tai, probably not wondering where I was.

The old woman continued: "The line of your head... it crosses your heart line. You think too much. You should feel more."

Outside a nearby arena, a prize bull snorted and pawed the ground—some rich bastard's pet, flown in for a weekend exhibition. The animal's raw power made me think of the anger I'd been swallowing for years. The fights that ended with Sarah saying "you're overthinking it" and me swallowing words until they tasted like bile.

"What about my future?" I asked, hating how desperate I sounded.

She turned my hand over, traced the life line cutting deep. Then she closed my fingers around hers. "You already know. You've always known."

I walked back to the resort. The pool was empty now, blue water rippling in the twilight. Sarah's lounge chair held her phone and a half-empty drink. No note.

Then I saw them—two discarded coconut shells on the deck where earlier I'd watched her get her palm read by the same old woman. She'd known. She'd come three days ago, before we even left home.

I picked up her phone. No password. Just one text draft, unsent: *I still love him. But I don't think he loves the woman I've become.*

The bull snorted in the distance, and for the first time in years, I let myself feel something besides numbness. I typed: *I love the woman you're becoming. I just don't know how to reach her anymore.*

Then I hit send, and waited for the water to either drown us or wash us clean.