The Amateur Palmist

” Let’s see yours”, he offered, with eagerness hard to refuse.

“Sure”, said I, and gave him my hand.

He took my hand and stared at it intently.

“It’s clean! ” He looked up, expecting a reaction. I obliged a smile.

“Soft hands”, he deduced,raising an eyebrow as he looked at me from above his low set spectacles. “I’ve never seen such soft hands on a man before! Do you do no physical work?”

“Physical work? These hands have kneaded clay, carved stones and carried school bags! What does physical work have to do with softness of hands? Get on with it!” I said, irritated, and impatient as ever.

“Well,” he relented, as his fingers took leave of my palm to scratch his head.

Somewhat perplexed he ventured : “You have no lifeline.”

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1 Comment

  1. ūüôā I like how the story ends. I remember during school days we used to read lifelines. I am glad none of that madness came back except as a fun night full of random predictions about a future no one knows. Not even our hands.

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