At the heartline, love is expressed in its personal form. Passion can bend and flex. Love shatters under the wrong touch, or else breaks in pieces the thing that touches it. On some level, not expressed in words, or by thoughts meted out by syllables and sounds, Marian is contemplating this as she makes love to her husband. Afterward, under the whooshing of the ceiling fan and the gentle breeze of Kelly’s improvised one made from yesterday morning’s paper, Marian studies her palm, not remembering her thoughts, but suddenly fascinated by her lines—where they meet, where those meanings cross and diverge. Kelly jokingly places his large, hirsute and work-hardened hand beside Marian’s, and she laughs at the sheer comparison. Her palms are white, and in them, beneath the supple skin her lines are bright pink—they blush red as she spreads her fingers.
“Gotcha,” she says, her hand closing over Kelly’s finger—a fly in her Venus flytrap.
There is a place where things join, says a voice; her voice, clear and definite and sure.