What the Lines Know

Elena's thumb pressed into the center of my palm, her touch deliberate, almost clinical. The HVAC unit above us rumbled, competing with the thunder that had been threatening all afternoon. The margarita I'd ordered sat sweating on the bar's coaster, untouched.

"You have a short life line," she said, not looking up. "Did you know that?"

I pulled my hand back. "I thought you didn't believe in that shit."

"I don't." Her expensive hat—straw, wide-brimmed, ridiculous—shadowed her face. "But I've been reading your palm for twenty years, Marcus. Just not with my hands."

The bartender, a guy with neck tattoos and dead eyes, dropped a coaster in front of me. The dog at my feet, a rescued golden retriever named Senator who'd seen me through three layoffs and one divorce, thumped his tail against the bar rail. He liked Elena. I didn't trust his judgment anymore.

"Is this about the hat?" I asked. "Because you look like you're going to a Kentucky Derby that closed in 2008."

"Your father's hat." She smoothed the brim. "You wore it to his funeral. You never wear hats."

Outside, lightning shattered the sky, white and sudden as a camera flash. The bar went dark. Someone cheered. In that strobe-light darkness, Elena's face was briefly illuminated—grief, exhaustion, something like surrender.

"The dog's dying, isn't he?" she said.

I'd made the appointment that morning. Dr. Patel had given me the pamphlet about quality of life, about knowing when to let go, about not being selfish. I'd sat in the exam room with Senator's head on my knee, the dog who'd slept beside me through chemo, through the nights I couldn't breathe through the panic.

"Friday," I said.

"Marcus." Her voice caught. "I came back because my mother asked me to check on you. But I'm not here because she asked."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you're the only person I've ever loved who's short on time." She reached across the bar, found my hand in the darkness. "And because I'm tired of reading you like I'm still figuring you out. I already know you."

"Then you know there's nothing left to figure out."

"I know you measure everything in endings." She kissed my knuckles, her lips soft and careful. "I want to measure something in beginnings."

The lights flickered back on. Senator whined, pressed his nose against my ankle. Lightning struck again, closer this time—a jagged crack that sounded like the sky breaking open.

"Start again," she said. "With me."

I looked at my palm, at the line she'd said was too short, and realized she was wrong. Some things just had to be measured in the time they took, not how long they lasted.

"Okay," I said.

Outside, the storm finally broke.