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A bitter wind blew relentlessly, numbing the cheeks and hands of revelers lining the streets and sending them indoors in droves. They packed the pub as tight as canned sausages, yet managed to move in time when the string band began playing their reels. The big room reeked of wet clothes and beer. A line had already formed at the door to the ladies’ bathroom.
With every sip of her Guinness, Meghan dreaded the long wait in line. Finally, she announced, “Nature calls.”
“Already?” Doreen cast her eyes askance. Her shiny green eye shadow was smeared at the corners.
“You want me to make a puddle right here?”
“Go!” Doreen commanded.
Meghan threaded her way through the crowd, past the long, polished bar jammed three deep with patrons. Bartenders were pulling pints of lagers and stouts as fast as they could.
Doreen held court at their table, dominating the conversation with rapid-fire gossip and banter. A pint glass of green-tinted beer sat at her place. She reached for the salt shaker and sprinkled a few granules into the brew. She showed no sign of fatigue, despite the fact that she, Meghan, and their friend, Mary, had begun celebrating before noon. All along the parade route, she’d been a magnet. By the time they reached the pub, their numbers had swelled to a dozen partiers.
“Who wants to see a magic trick?” she asked.
“Absolutely!” “Yes!” “I do,” chorused the replies.
She pulled a dollar bill from her pocket and began folding it into a sloppy square. “I need two paper clips.” She said and was met with stares. “Come on, one of you bitches has to have paper clips.”
Mary giggled drunkenly. “I might have some.” She lifted an enormous satchel from the back of her chair and began searching. In a few moments, she produced a pair. Doreen plucked them from her hand.
“Watch how I place the paper clips on either side of the square.”
“It looks like an S,” Mary replied.
The others leaned in to watch Doreen’s nimble fingers.
“Are you going to make it disappear?” Mary asked, stuffing a wedge of lime into the neck of her beer bottle.
Doreen grimaced. “Shut up and pay attention.” She tucked a strand of glossy, black hair behind one ear, and then turned the folded bill to show both sides.
“Notice how the paper clips do not touch each other?” Heads nodded. “Now watch closely.” She gripped the ends of the folded bill and pulled in opposite directions. In a flash, the bill was fully unwrapped and the paper clips had miraculously joined together, jumping from the bill and falling to the table.
“Ta da!” She turned up both palms to show there was no sleight of hand. The table burst into a round of enthusiastic applause.
Meghan looked back from the end of the line to see Doreen bowing to the group. She’d grown accustomed to her friend’s extroverted personality. She always managed to make herself the center of attention, whether at work or out on the town. Her shapely limbs and lissome gestures only added to her charisma. Men and women alike were drawn to her, and Meghan had been no exception. But an entire day of Doreen’s egotism was trying her patience.
“Who’s that?” a woman standing behind her asked, pointing to a portrait hanging low on the wall. It was a black and white photo of a dour faced man with large, soulful eyes and a boxy chin. Next to the portrait hung a streetscape and in the foreground was a horse-drawn funeral procession. Greasy fingerprints dotted the glass.
“That’s Michael Collins,” Meghan answered.
“Who’s he?”
“Didn’t you see that movie?” she asked, impatiently, “The one with Liam Neeson and Julia Roberts?”
“That’s not Liam Neeson,” the woman responded.
“No, that’s the real Michael Collins.”
The wall was crowded with dusty paintings and photos of Dublin and the Irish countryside, interspersed with advertisements for Ales and Stouts, glossy head shots of famous Publicans, cathedrals, and a large, poster-sized collage of the doors of Irish pubs. Along side the faded poster hung a photograph of The Blazen Head Pub, the oldest drinking establishment in Dublin, built in the time of the last King of Ireland, and the namesake for this American public house, Blazen Head West.
The line inched forward.
“What about him?” She aimed a stubby finger at another photo, this one in sepia tone. The frail man, shot in profile, sported round glasses and a beard.
“That’s James Joyce.”
“I’ve heard of him!” she said brightly.
Meghan turned front again, and as she did, rolled her eyes. “Philistine,” she muttered.
A rotund woman emerged from the bathroom. She wore a strand of green and white beads draped across her heavy breasts, lighted plastic shamrocks interspersed along the strand. They flashed a racing pattern around her neck. As she passed the line of anxious women waiting their turn, she said, “It’s just two stalls in there.” A choral groan went up.
Meghan’s sense of urgency rose.
She remembered a ploy she’d seen the previous summer, waiting in line for food at an outdoor festival. A young man used his talents at palm reading to entice the people standing in front of him to boost him in the line. He’d worked his way into the tent quickly. She’d paid close enough attention to what he’d said to know the right words, even if she didn’t have a clue about what to look for in the hands.
She tapped the shoulder of the next woman in line.
“I’ll tell your fortune if you’ll let me in front of you,” she offered.
The woman smiled. “OK,” she replied. “But it better be good.”
“Show me your hand.”
She remembered the long diagonal that circumnavigated the thumb was Life. Everybody knew that. Across the hand, a single or broken bisector was Heart. The man at the festival met great success with his predictions of love affairs to come. She made her way forward with the same ploy. Old hands bore deep, fissured lines. She told their owners, “Your love line shows a lot of activity.” Some confirmed her interpretation. Others denied, “Not me!” She answered, “Then there’s excitement still to come.” Young hands with shallow lines, she said, showed feelings that lay just beneath the surface. Shy girls blushed. Others she told, “too soon to tell.”
With a somber shake of her head, she read short life lines. “Better make hay while the sun shines,” she advised them, then grinned and said, “No worries. It’s all bullshit.” She asked one whose lifeline was long and pronounced, “Are you married?” When the woman answered “No,” she advised, “Then marry a young man. You’ll still outlive him.” She moved ahead and was at the door to the lavatory in no time.
“Do me.” At the front of the line stood one of the costumed Irish dancers, hand extended. The tall girl grinned expectantly at Meghan and asked, “How long will I live?”
The doors to both stalls opened and Meghan gestured to the dancer to go ahead, saying, “I’ll catch up with you later.”
On her way back to the table, she flagged down one of the bartenders and asked, “When do the bagpipes come on?” He cupped a hand to his ear and she shouted her question again. He shook his head.
“Not this year. The owner stiffed them last St. Pat’s. They’re down the street, at O’Neill’s.”
“Too bad.” She returned to her table to find a few empty seats. Mary patted the chair beside her. She had no sooner sat when the tall dancer approached their table and presented her hand.
“My turn now,” she said.
Meghan hesitated.
“You promised.”
She seized the hand and turned her palm to the light.
“What’s going on?” Doreen asked.
“What does it look like? She’s telling my fortune,” the girl replied. “So, what does it show?”
“You’ll live a long life,” Meghan said. She felt ridiculous doing this where her friends could watch. But she continued, “There’s wealth in your future, too.”
Blonde curls bounced as the girl nodded. With her free hand, she waved to her party. Several dancers crowded around their table, all eager to hear what Meghan had to say. “The possibility of a broken heart,” she finished and released the girl’s hand.
“That’s no surprise,” she laughed. “Do my friend, Annie.”
“How about another time?”
“Just one more,” the eager girl pleaded.
She relented. “Your life line is broken,” she told the girl.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, either you’ll die young,” she began. The girl gasped. Her free hand jumped to her throat and touched the gold cross hanging there. “Or there’ll be a change in your life, big enough to make you feel like you’re starting over.” The girl pulled her hand back and peered closely at her palm.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
Meghan shrugged. “That’s fine by me. It’s just superstition anyway.”
“My turn!” another dancer declared, thrusting her hand forward. “Please.”
There was no turning back. She took the girl’s hand and peered thoughtfully before she spoke. Mary watched intently as her friend took each girl’s hand and foretold their futures – husbands, lovers, happiness and pain. When they were gone, she asked, “Will you read mine, too?”
Meghan leaned in close. “I really don’t know how,” she whispered.
“What did you say?” Doreen demanded. A scowl spoiled her pretty face.
“I need a drink,” she replied and signaled to the waitress. “A pint of Guinness, please.” But before it came, another group of eager fans flocked the table, begging her to read their fortunes.
“This shit is tiresome,” Doreen announced. She drained her glass and stood up, saying, “Come on, Mary. Let’s go.” But Mary shook her head.
“I’ll get a ride with Meghan.”
“Suit yourself.”
Meghan reached for Doreen’s arm. “Don’t leave,” she asked. “I’m bored with this, too.” She waved away the flock.
Doreen stopped and looked over her shoulder.
Meghan offered, “I’ll buy your next drink. What do you say?”
Doreen walked toward the door and then came back. She sat, folded her arms and looked peevishly at the empty space on the table before her. Meghan signaled the waitress.
The string band finished their set and in their place, a trio of musicians, one with an accordion, one singer, and the other playing a penny whistle, began a forlorn tune. The din subsided as the patrons quieted to listen to his song. He sang of lovers separated by distance and war, the long journey of a devoted boy, and his heartache upon returning to find his beloved dead and gone.
“You know what they say about the Irish,” Doreen offered.
“Tell us,” Mary replied, wiping her eyes with a paper napkin.
“They’re the men that God made mad. For all their wars are happy, and all their songs are sad.”
Meghan raised her glass. “Here’s to the mad men, then.”
“And may you live to be a hundred years,” Mary added. “With an extra year to repent!”
A small girl, pretty and dark, and cradling a three-quarter size guitar, joined the band. She plucked the strings and began to sing, as languid a tune as the ballad that had preceded it, but with a happier message. The girl’s clear voice carried the refrain like a bird. Some in the audience sang along. Her voice trailed away and the penny whistle reprised the chorus.
Strangers came and took chairs at their table. The band played another ballad and the man and the girl sang in unison. Mary and Meghan pulled their chairs closer to Doreen’s. A squat, clean shaven man with a powerful voice and a concertina covered Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl.
“That’s me,” Doreen shouted.
The musicians joined him on stage and they belted out a Celtic rendition of Gloria. The crowd stood, some on their chairs, and chanted the letters, G-L-O-R-I-A. They hooted and clapped as the band exited the stage, waving their instruments aloft. By the time the Irish dancers took the stage, shoulder to shoulder in two long rows, good cheer had returned between the three friends.
Tap shoes rapped hardwood in perfect syncopation; legs flew forward as if unhinged while stiff arms hugged their torsos and hands hung frozen in space. Springy blonde curls bounced in time with tapping feet. Their perfect, doll-like faces beamed with intensity. The line swelled and retreated, upstage and down, but the girls never missed a step. The audience was rapt. At the end, they cheered vigorously.
The dancers left the pub together, pressing out the double door in a cluster. Cold, fragrant air spilled in the door as they poured out. Meghan waved at Annie as she passed but got no response. A pair of stragglers hurried from the stage, wiping perspiration from their faces and necks with towels. One girl carried her curly platinum wig in her hand. Brown hair hugged her head beneath a nylon skull cap. Her face had been scrubbed clean.
“Wait up!” she called.
From the doorway came the sound of tires squealing and a loud thud, the long peal of a car horn, and then screams. Patrons rushed the door. Doreen pressed through the crowd with Meghan on her heels. The wigless girl pushed past them and cried, “Annie!” when she saw the girl in the street.
She lay sprawled in the intersection. Her legs were splayed and her head twisted oddly. Her mouth had fallen open. Her gold necklace was broken and the cross had flown away from the chain. The driver of the car stood nearby, her hands outstretched, crying, “She came out of nowhere!” People were shouting into their cell phones while others wept.
“She’s the one who came to our table,” Doreen said.
“I told her fortune,” replied Meghan.
“You said she was going to die.” Doreen joined the throng gathered around Annie. Meghan slumped back against the brick building. The whine of bagpipes sounded from O’Neill’s, long wailing notes, as if in alarm. A siren in the distance sang its reply.
The sidewalk swelled with on-lookers. The tall girl knelt near her friend.
“She’s still breathing,” she called out.
“Don’t touch her!” Doreen answered.
The paramedics arrived within minutes. One of the EMTs placed a collar around her neck. He and his partner lifted her onto a gurney and secured the straps, then rolled the cart to the ambulance. Meghan watched them raise her into the back of the vehicle.
With quick, deliberate steps, the tall girl approached Meghan.
“This is your fault. God damn you!” She slapped Meghan as hard as she could. The force of her blow left a hand print on Meghan’s face. Mary pulled her friend by the arm, away from the angry girl.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, towing her down the sidewalk with quick steps. Doreen watched them go.
#
Meghan worked in her cubicle all morning. Doreen did not pause when she passed. No one interrupted her until Mary stopped by and asked, “How’re you doing?” She leaned against the sturdy wall with her arms folded. “You’re not still upset, are you?”
Meghan shrugged.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she replied. “The whole palm reading thing was just a lark. But look what happened.”
“One had nothing to do with the other.”
“What if the things I said made her, I don’t know, reckless or something?”
“That’s crazy.”
“What are you talking about?” Doreen stuck her head into the cubicle.
Meghan looked her squarely in the eyes and said, “Business.”
“Yeah, right.” Doreen glared at her. “I don’t get what’s going on here, but, my hand to God, you guys are pissing me off royally.”
Mary stammered, “I’m...m…s…sorry,” and fled.
“It’s nothing,” Meghan said. “Nothing. At. All,” in a crisp, slow utterance.
Doreen leaned in. “It’s not nothing. It’s that girl at the Blazen Head and what you said to her.” She looked both directions, and then dropped her head. “How come you talk to Mary about it, but not me?”
Doreen was a notorious gossip.
Meghan shook her head. “I’m not talking about it. You are.”
“I’m outta here.” She retreated to her cubicle.
Meghan turned back to her computer screen. One of the florescent bulbs overhead flickered. She rubbed her irritated eyes with her fists and blinked back tears. She stared at the spreadsheet displayed there and tried to concentrate on the numbers and symbols before her. But her thoughts returned to the image of the girl in the street. She opened a new page and began searching for Palmistry.
There were hundreds of sites dedicated to the practice. She opened link after link and saw images of splayed hands, both right and left, intricately labeled. At the pub, she’d been right about where the life and heart lines were located. But there was so much more detail to translate, and the layers of interpretation the sites described were astonishing. She continued to read until she heard the voice of her unit manager, Chip, at the next cubicle.
“There’s a staff meeting at four,” he said.
As he turned to Meghan’s workspace, she minimized the screen.
“Four o’clock,” he repeated.
She watched him walk away. His khaki trousers and white shirt hung on his too-thin frame in folds. The sound of his footsteps faded as she once again stared mindlessly at the spreadsheet. She was oblivious to the low hum of activity in the windowless room where dozens of associates in identical cubicles tapped at their keyboards. A simple phrase kept intruding on her thoughts, a headline she’d seen emblazoned on the banner of one of the palmistry sites, “Lines Never Lie.”
She took her lunch in the break room, where Mary found her. They sat side by side eating in silence. Meghan wore a rueful expression. She discarded her unfinished sandwich and started to leave, then changed directions and sat down next to Mary again.
“There’s a lot more to it than just the lines on your palm,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“I looked it up on the ‘net. It’s not just how long or how deep they are, either.”
“Show me,” Mary said, resting her left hand on the table, palm up.
“The left hand is the birth hand,” she explained. “If I read this one, I can tell you things about your potential.”
“What about my future?”
“I need your right.”
Mary switched hands. Meghan examined it for several seconds before she spoke. “The shape of your hand says you’re reliable, because your palm and your fingers are short. They call that an Earth hand.” She rubbed her fingers around her friend’s palm. “See this hollow in your palm?” Mary nodded. “That says you’re shy.”
“You knew that already,” she replied.
“Your fingertips have meaning, too.”
“Like what?”
“I know the square ones are practical and the round ones are intellectual. I guess yours are a little bit square.”
“What about the lines?”
“Here,” she touched Mary’s lifeline, “this long, unbroken line is your lifeline and it shows you’re not only going to have a long, healthy life, but that you’re an adaptable person.” Mary looked up from her hand, enthralled. Her blue eyes glistened expectantly. “And I found out a short one doesn’t have to mean death.”
Mary looked at the clock. “Tell me the rest before we have to clock in.”
“Up here,” she said, touching a pair of lines near the fingers, “are your heart and head lines. I know what long or short head lines mean, but yours is kind of in-between.”
“Not too smart but not dumb, either?”
“I guess.”
“What about my heart line? What does that show?”
“See these little short lines that cross it here and here?” She pointed to the spot.
“Will I have a broken heart?”
“No, not necessarily. But you don’t trust your heart when it comes to love.”
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “You got that right.”
“Don’t take this too seriously,” Meghan warned.
“Oh, I know. But what else do you see?”
“This straight up and down line in the middle, that’s your fate line.”
“What does it say?”
Meghan saw tiny islands dotting her friend’s fate line. She frowned.
“What is it? Is it bad?” She pulled back her hand and crossed herself. Two of their co-workers, Erica and Traci, turned to look at them.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s nothing to worry about. I just don’t remember what it means.”
“Can you find out and tell me later?”
“Sure.”
“Promise?”
“I said I would. Now, let’s go before we’re late.”
She swiped her ID card at the time clock and returned to her cubicle. At her desk, she tried to concentrate on the columns and rows of numbers, but she couldn’t resist checking the palmistry site again. She had to confirm what she thought she saw in her friend’s hand. She told herself, it would only take a few seconds and then she could get back to her assignment.
She scrolled through the pages of text and images until she found the Fate Line. The headline read, “The fate line represents your career path.” She looked at all of the different figures with fate lines represented. Underneath the image of the hand whose fate line was dotted with little islands she read, “Usually negative. Shows difficulties finding or keeping a job.”
“What’s up?”
She was startled by Erica’s sudden appearance. She minimized the screen before turning around.
“I saw what you were doing in the break room,” she said. “What’s that all about?”
Meghan shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“No, really. Can you tell the future or what?”
“God, no.”
She frowned. “I told Doreen. She says you’re full of crap.”
“What did you tell her for?”
“I don’t know. I thought you guys were friends.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her about you and Mary, and how you gave her a palm reading in the break room. That’s what you were doing, weren’t you?”
Meghan sighed. What had begun on a whim had now invaded her work, much the same the way it had taken over at the pub.
“So will you do mine?” Erica raised her hand.
“No. I can’t. I mean, not now.”
“Later then?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Whatev.” Erica stalked away.
At four o’clock, Meghan filed into the conference room with the rest of the staff. Chairs were arranged in rows. Doreen was seated in the first row, directly in front of the podium. She turned to watch them enter, one arm draped over the empty chair beside her. Chip stood stiffly at the lectern, note cards in hand, watching his associates take their seats. A thin line of sweat beaded on his top lip. The group was uncharacteristically quiet. When everyone was seated, Chip adjusted his glasses and began to read from the cards.
“I have the unfortunate task of telling you that there will be a reduction in force in our division.” He took a deep breath. “This branch is reducing its workforce by seven associates, based on dates of hire.”
People began looking at one another.
“What? We’re being laid off?” Erica asked.
He continued to read aloud. “Those with less than two years on the job will be immediately affected.”
Mary began to sob. Meghan leaned forward and looked down the row of people. She tried to catch Mary’s attention, but she had plunged her face into her hands. Erica crossed her arms. Her chin dropped onto her chest as she slumped in the chair. Doreen sat ramrod straight and kept her eyes on Chip. She and Meghan had begun working at the branch in the same week, four years earlier. They were safe, for now.
“Those of you who are affected must clear your stations this afternoon.” He put the cards on the lectern and finally looked up at the group. “I hate this as much as you do,” he said, extemporaneously.
No one moved for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “You’re excused.”
Erica, Traci and Mary were three of the seven. They collected their few personal possessions from their cubicles and lined up at the exit, boxes in hand, to return their security badges.
“And I thought seven was a lucky number,” Traci moaned, loud enough for all in the office to hear.
Meghan turned in her chair to look. At the door where the time clock hung, Chip peered into their boxes and collected each one’s lanyard with the magnetic ID card attached. The florescent lights seemed to flatten their features. They looked liked a row of sad little dolls.
“You saw this in my hand, didn’t you?” Mary called to Meghan.
“It’s nonsense,” she replied.
Mary shook her head. “You knew!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “How could you keep it a secret? You’re supposed to be my friend.” Mary’s chin quivered. She put a hand to her mouth. Erica patted her shoulder. She looked back at Meghan with contempt.
Chip made a bee-line to her cubicle.
“I need to see you in my office.”
She passed the work stations of her former colleagues, like empty stalls in a darkened bazaar, walking quickly and looking straight ahead. She felt her heart pound in her chest. Her hands were clammy.
He opened the office door for her. Everything in the room, from the furniture and walls to the carpeting and acoustic ceiling tiles, was the same sandy color as the modular furniture in the cubicles outside. The only difference was Chip had a window.
Doreen waited inside.
Chip sat behind his desk. The women sat across from each other. He propped his elbows and folded his hands on top of the desk. They were fine-boned and slender, like a woman’s.
“Doreen came to me this afternoon,” he began, “She told me you’ve been using company resources inappropriately.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“To explore your interest in the Occult.”
“What?”
“She involved other employees, too,” Doreen chimed in.
“What are you talking about?” Meghan searched his face but he was as expressionless as he’d been in the meeting.
“Telling fortunes,” he explained.
She looked at Doreen. “I don’t believe you.”
She returned the gaze with a defiant stare. “Just doing what’s right for the company,” she snapped back.
He continued, “You were informed that we monitor the Internet activity of our employees. Am I right?” She nodded. “And, today, your use was flagged for entertainment content. That’s a policy violation.”
A smug smile crept onto Doreen’s face.
“I’m sorry about that,” Meghan responded. “But I haven’t done anything wrong when it comes to other employees.”
“She was doing it in the break room,” Doreen interjected.
“On my own time,” she countered. “I clocked out for lunch.”
“So, you’re saying you were telling fortunes in the break room?”
“Reading palms - just for fun.”
“She’s got everybody upset and distracted, Chip.” Doreen leaned forward and placed her hands on his desk. “I felt it was my responsibility to tell you.” She turned her head and lifted her eyes, coquettishly, as if presenting her cheek for a kiss.
“That will be all, Doreen.” He stood and walked to the door.
“You mean I should go?” she asked.
“Yes. You can return to your station.” He opened the door for her, saying, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
She looked surprised, but made her exit. He closed the door.
“What now?” Meghan asked, resting her hands in her lap. She braced herself for bad news. He sat next to her in the chair Doreen had vacated.
“You know,” he began, “I’ve been here just a little longer than you.” He was an associate when she started at the company. He’d been promoted to manager a couple of years ago. He exhaled, his breath escaping in a long, slow heave. “And I didn’t take this position just to hand out pink slips and discipline people. I thought it would lead to other opportunities. But, so far...” His voice trailed away.
She found herself thinking, “What does this have to do with me?” and wondered if he was up to firing someone face-to-face, rather than in a scripted meeting.
He placed his hand before her, palm up.
“Tell me what it says.” His eyes fell on hers. “Will I be a success?”
She slid her chair closer and took his hand into hers, fully aware she now had the advantage. She flattened his fingers and touched the spongy, pink flesh at the base of his thumb. “Is this a test?” she asked. “Because I don’t want to get into any more trouble.”
He shook his head. “I want to know.”
She studied the hand and considered her options. “You have an Earth hand,” she told him. But that wasn’t true. His hand was narrow and long.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re curious – but practical. You seek to improve yourself.” She chose the most flattering descriptions she could concoct.
“What else?”
“Here,” she said, touching his life line. “See the two lines running side by side? You’re about to have a dramatic change of circumstances.”
“Are you sure?”
Her brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me?” She released his hand and stood up.
“Wait,” he said. “Sit down. Please.”
She sat.
“Tell me when.”
“Oh, no,” she shook her head. “I can’t tell you that just from one reading.”
“Does it say anything else?”
“Let me see your left hand,” she insisted.
He proffered the other palm. She massaged his fingers, one by one. Color rose in his face and spread across his cheeks like a fresh sunburn.
“Your birth hand says you have potential for success. You’re a thoughtful leader, but you need trusted advice.”
“It shows that?”
“Right here,” she gestured broadly. “It’s all in your hand. And lines never lie.”
He smiled. “That will be all, for now.”
She walked out of the office with a smile on her face. She purposefully went out of her way to pass Doreen’s work station. She gave her a thumbs-up.
She returned to her cubicle and restored her screen. The image of the demarcated hand reappeared. She opened her own hand and gazed at the vertical line that crossed her palm. Her fate line began at the base of finger two and ran in an unbroken furrow to the heel of her hand, deep and sure. It bisected the Heart line – Love and Success were intertwined in her future.
She closed the page and shut down. She pressed the palms of her hands together until they trembled, then laced her fingers and rested her head in the palms of her hands, leaning back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
She carried her coffee mug to the break room and rinsed it. Coffee had darkened the hairline cracks in the glaze, and no amount of washing could remove the web of lines. Its sprinkling of shamrocks and the message printed on the mug had faded but she could still read the blessing. “May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you.” It had been a birthday gift from Mary.
In her cubicle, she carefully collected the photographs of her girlfriends and her dogs that she’d tacked up above her computer screen and placed them in her backpack along with her coffee mug and the handful of change in her top desk drawer. She walked to the copy machine and found a sheet of company letterhead. She handwrote her letter of resignation and signed it.
She waited at the time clock for Chip with her lanyard in her hand.
The End
