Palm Reading at the Padel Court

Claire stood at the baseline of the padel court, her gray-streaked **hair** escaping her ponytail in the humidity. At 47, she was the oldest woman in the corporate league by fifteen years. Her racket felt heavier than it had at 40, or maybe it was just the accumulated weight of everything she'd been carrying.

Across the net, Marcus served with the aggressive confidence of a man who'd just been made partner. His ball cap covered the **palm**-sized bald spot that Claire had noticed during last year's Christmas party—the same night he'd cornered her near the coatroom, his whiskey-breath ghosting over her collarbone as he whispered about how they were "two ships passing in the night."

She'd laughed it off then. But now, watching him move across the court with predatory grace, she remembered the goldfish bowl in her therapist's office. **Goldfish**, supposedly, had no memory—every three seconds was a new beginning. Claire envied them. She'd give anything to forget how Marcus's hand had lingered on her lower back at the quarterly review, or how she'd leaned into it for just a moment before pulling away, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped thing.

"Your wife," she'd said, desperate for a shield between them. "She's lovely, Marcus."

"She's asleep before I get home, Claire. She's been asleep for years."

The ball hit the wall and ricocheted toward her. She swung and missed.

"You're overthinking it," Marcus called, grinning. "Just like everything else."

That night, Claire's **dog**—a arthritic retriever named after her ex-husband—limped to her bedside as she sat awake, scrolling through deleted messages. The dog's milky eyes fixed on hers with something like accusation. She wondered if animals could smell betrayal, if it clung to her like cigarette smoke or the residue of another man's cologne.

Tomorrow she would delete Marcus's number again. Tomorrow she would request a transfer to another department. Tomorrow she would tell her therapist she was making progress.

But tonight, lying in the blue light of her phone, she watched three gray dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear, like goldfish swimming to the surface of a bowl that was slowly, quietly running out of air.