What the Palm Reader Didn't Say

The corporate retreat in Sharm El-Sheikh was Marcus's idea—some nonsense about 'team cohesion' and 'vision alignment.' Elena had spent the first three days avoiding the scheduled trust falls and instead sitting at the hotel's rooftop bar, where she could see the distant silhouette of the Sphinx against the sunset. Ancient riddles for ancient problems, she thought. Her problem was more immediate: she and Marcus had been sleeping in the same bed for six years, but the last time they'd really touched, she couldn't remember.

That's when the old Egyptian woman appeared at the corner table, her weathered face framed by a black hijab, offering palm readings to anyone drunk enough to believe in destiny. Elena's colleagues had lined up earlier, laughing, treating it like another office party activity. But something made Elena wait until they'd all stumbled downstairs.

'You carry things,' the woman said, her voice like gravel and honey. She traced the lines on Elena's palm with a gnarled finger. 'This line—here, where it breaks. Something ended.' She paused. 'But you already know this.' Elena thought of Marcus's hat collection—the trilby he'd worn at their wedding, now gathering dust on the top shelf of their closet. Symbols of a man she'd thought she'd marry.

'Will it get better?' Elena asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

The woman looked at her for a long moment, then at the Sphinx visible through the window, then back at Elena's hand. 'The Sphinx asks,' she said softly. 'It does not answer.' She closed Elena's fingers around an Egyptian pound coin. 'That costs extra.'

Elena found Marcus at the pool bar, wearing that ridiculous Panama hat he'd bought at the resort gift shop. He was laughing with someone from accounting—genuine laughter, the kind she used to get from him. She sat beside him and ordered wine, thinking about riddles and questions and how some things don't have answers, only choices.

'I'm going back early,' she said. The words felt like coming up for air.

Marcus turned, and for once, he really looked at her. His palm covered hers on the bar—warm and alive and too late. 'Elena—'

She gently pulled her hand away. 'I know.' She touched the brim of his hat, a final goodbye. 'I'm not asking anymore.'