What the Palm Reader Didn't Say

The sphinx statue in the resort courtyard grinned at me, riddle-less and knowing. At 47, I'd become the kind of man who sneaks cigarettes at his sister's wedding, three whiskies deep and watching his wife dance with someone who made her laugh more than I had in years.

Maria's hair spilled down her back like dark silk, catching the tropical sun. I remembered how I used to bury my face in it, inhaling coconut shampoo and sleeping breath. Now it belonged to a stranger I slept beside.

Later, in our room, she reached for my hand.

"Let me see your palm," she whispered, tracing the lines. "Remember that fortune teller in New Orleans? She said we'd have three children."

"We have two, Maria."

"She said three."

Her finger circled my lifeline. I thought about the mornings I woke without purpose, dragging myself through meetings and mergers like some corporate zombie, dead inside and too exhausted to notice my own decay.

"I'm going swimming," I said, pulling away.

The ocean was black ink under moonlight. I swam until my muscles burned, until salt water filled my mouth, until the shore became nothing but a ribbon of light. For a moment, I kept going. Then I turned back.

Maria stood on the beach, watching. She'd wrapped herself in a hotel robe, hair loose against her shoulders. Waiting.

That sphinx grin flashed through my mind—some things, perhaps, weren't riddles to be solved. They were just life.

I waded ashore. She didn't speak, just took my wet hand in hers, palm to palm, and led me back toward the lights. Some riddles answer themselves, given enough time and salt water.