Hannah Pass


A week before my wedding, Anna called and said, “I'm in love with my palm reader.”


We had overlapped, in love simultaneously.


I ear-hugged the phone, yanked out the laundry, separated Steve's darks from whites. I folded his boxers into squares. Our bedroom held a bunch of used cups, rubbers plants, boxes and boxes covered in summery dust.


Outside: neighbors barbequing, inflatable pools, discussion on newly acquired anxieties.


“I often worry that people are watching me!”


“I often worry that people are avoiding me, frequently!”


I told myself I truly was in love. Twitterpated and doe-eyed.


Anna described her palm reader and I said, frankly, “Anna, girly, you have a palm reader?” As if it were as common as having a hairstylist or dentist.


“She's just so, how do I phrase it? Gentle,” Anna said.