Palm Reader's Last Prophecy

I found him sitting on the fire escape, crushing cigarette butts into an overflowing coffee can. Same position as yesterday, and the day before that. March had been a relentless loop of gray mornings and hangover afternoons.

"You look like shit," I said, leaning against the rusted railing.

He laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Feel worse."

His fedora sat crooked on his head, the brim permanently stained with sweat and grease. He'd worn it to his sister's funeral six years ago and hadn't taken it off since, except to sleep and fuck. That hat was the only thing holding him together, a flimsy shield against a world that had already chewed him up and spit him out.

"Got any readings today?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nobody wants their palm read anymore. They want their horoscope delivered to their phone, their fortune cookie reduced to a notification." He held up his own hands, palms scarred from handling broken glass and hot metal at the warehouse. "These hands don't know shit about the future. They know about survival."

We'd both fallen into this city three years ago, chasing dreams that had evaporated before we even unpacked. He was supposed to be an actor. I was going to write the great American novel. Now we were just two more zombies wandering the streets, hollowed out by rent and routine and the slow erosion of hope.

"Sarah left," he said suddenly, not looking at me.

"I'm sorry, man."

"Yeah. She said I was already dead. Just walking around like I was still alive." He tapped his chest, over his heart. "She called me a zombie. Said she couldn't love something that didn't exist anymore."

I didn't know what to say. Sarah was the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was the reason he'd quit drinking for three months last spring, the reason he'd actually auditioned for a play instead of just talking about it.

"Come inside," I said. "I've got whiskey."

"Nah. I'm done with the poison." He stood up, swaying slightly, and took off the hat. His hair was matted to his skull, his eyes rimmed with red. "Think I'm finally gonna leave the city, Mark. Go somewhere actual things grow. Maybe figure out if there's anything left of me worth saving."

"Where?"

He shrugged. "Maybe somewhere with palm trees. Somewhere I can sleep outside without freezing to death."

I watched him walk away, that empty hat dangling from his hand, and wondered if any of us ever really escape ourselves. The neon sign from the bar across the street flickered, casting long shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the pavement, as if even the city's light was trying to grab hold of something real in all that darkness.