She stares at the blank screen. Wonders if there are any words left inside her. Any verbs bubbling to the surface? Any nouns waiting to be introduced? She looks at her fingers resting on the keys. Calmly positioned forefingers on J and F — thumbs on the spacebar. Her hands look slender—perhaps it’s the lighting? They look delicate. She lifts one and stretches her fingers wide. Not delicate, thick. Stubby fingers with nails cut too close. She doesn’t have an artist’s slight fingers. Hers could direct traffic and operate a jackhammer. The lines on her palm are well defined and her skin is coarse, always needing lotion. She knows the lines well. She has pensively sketched them. Headline, heart line, lifeline. She wishes she can remember all the details. Her heart line is broken. Her headline is tied into her lifeline. Someone once told her she had a shadow over her heart. A stranger at a party. Discussing tarot and palmistry. Her fingers traced the creases delicately, ‘Your heart is shadowed. You have to let go.’ She stares at the black screen and types Let Go.