Corporate Palmistry

Marcus stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—dark circles under his eyes, skin the color of old paper. Three years of consulting had turned him into something that shuffled through hallways, responding to emails with automatic precision. A corporate zombie, he thought, not dead but certainly not alive.

The office dog—a golden retriever named Sunshine who belonged to the CEO—wandered in, nudging his hand. Marcus knelt, burying his face in the dog's fur, inhaling the earthy, familiar scent. At least something here was real.

"You leaving too?" Sarah asked from the doorway. She held two paper cups of water from the cooler. "Third resignation this week."

"Friday's my last day." Marcus accepted the water. "I finally did it—bought the ticket. Costa Rica. Monday morning, I'm gone."

Sarah's smile didn't reach her eyes. She extended her left hand. "Read my palm before you go? For luck?"

He'd never told anyone at work about the palm reading lessons from his grandmother, the old Romanian woman who'd taught him to see futures in the lines of strangers' hands. But Sarah had always known somehow, the way she knew he took his coffee black, the way she knew he kept a photograph of his dead wife in his wallet.

He traced the lifeline with his thumb—shallow, interrupted. "You're going to leave too," he said quietly. "Soon."

"I can't. Mortgage, student loans..." She looked away.

"Your heart line." His finger moved higher. "You're in love with someone who doesn't see you."

Sarah pulled her hand back. "Everyone's dead inside, Marcus. You're not special."

"I'm not trying to be." He stood up. "I'm trying not to be."

"Costa Rica," she repeated. "Enjoy the beaches."

"You could come."

"You know I can't."

They stood there as the dog curled up between them, two people who'd once spent a night together in a hotel room during a conference, never speaking of it again. Some things didn't need saying.

"Your palm," Marcus said. "The travel line—it moves. It changes."

"Maybe," she said, already turning toward the door. "But some patterns are harder to break than others."

He watched her go. Monday morning, he would be somewhere else. But tonight, he was still here, another ghost haunting the fluorescent corridors, another person who'd almost changed everything but hadn't quite found the courage to try.