Electric Palm

Emma sat across from Mark at the bistro, watching his thumb scroll through his iPhone. Their sixth anniversary dinner, and he hadn't looked up in seven minutes. She reached for her wine, fingers trembling.

"The spinach is cold," she said, not touching the wilted greens on her plate.

"Mm," Mark replied, still scrolling.

Outside, the first heavy drops of rain began to streak the window. The weatherman had warned about severe storms, but they'd come anyway. Emma thought about the palm tree swaying in the wind outside their apartment—the one they'd argued about when they bought the place. Mark had wanted it gone. Something about too much maintenance.

She remembered the way his palm had felt against hers that first night, sweat and promise at a summer party. How he'd traced the lines on her hand with clumsy fingers, whispered something about reading her future.

Now she couldn't remember the last time he'd held her hand like that. Without meaning to, she looked down at her own palm, the life line creased with six years of compromises, of dinners eaten in silence, of conversations deferred to screens.

A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the restaurant, followed instantly by thunder that shook the glass. The other patrons looked up, startled, but Mark kept scrolling. Emma saw his screen reflected in the window—work emails, endless threads that demanded answers.

"Mark?"

"Just one sec, Em, important client."

The spinach congealed. The rain intensified. Emma stood up, wallet in hand, and walked to the counter to pay their bill. Another lightning strike turned the parking lot into a strobe-lit ghost town. She didn't look back at their table, didn't check if he noticed.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Mark, finally looking up. She turned it off and stepped into the storm, letting the rain wash away something she should have left years ago.