I probably shouldn’t admit that
reading his palm made me move
in with him. That would seem
superstitious and I’m really not
superstitious. Neither do I know
anything about palm reading.
He had said, ‘Why don’t
you and your daughter move
in with me and my sons.’
And I’d said, ‘Why?’ and
he’d said, ‘ Because you
are unhappy.’ And I’d cried.
So we were making small talk to
lighten the situation and I picked up
his hands. Blunt hands, soft and
slightly plump, large square palms
with delicate fingers. ‘Like mine,’
I thought. And the lifeline and
the one above, set apart, like mine.
It wasn’t noticing these things,
but holding his hand like that,
it was as if I recognised it, as if
my body knew his body.
I’m not talking about lust,
just this knowing, like looking back,