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 fan made from his folded morning 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 white, supple skin her lines are bright pink—they blush bright red as she opens them.
“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.
Thanks for checking out this little part of my short story.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!