Palm Readings at Sunset

Maria sat across from the woman with the scarred **palm**, watching smoke curl from a cigarette as the reader traced the lifeline with practiced fingers. The air smelled of **orange** peel and stale incense.

"You feel like a **zombie** lately," the woman said, not asking. "Dead inside, going through motions. That corporate job—it's eating you alive."

Maria's chest tightened. How could she know about the fluorescent lights, the endless spreadsheets, the way she stared at her computer until her eyes burned?

"And the man," the reader continued, ash falling onto the small table. "The **bull** of a boss who thinks he owns you. He doesn't. But you let him."

Maria thought of David, with his booming voice and territorial aggression. How he'd corner her in the breakroom, looming over her like a predator. The way she'd stopped fighting back.

"There's something coming though," the woman said, eyes glinting. "A chance encounter. Something unexpected."

Three days later, Maria found herself at a **baseball** game, dragged by her sister who swore she needed to get out of her head. The Dodgers were down by two, the crowd roaring around them. She'd squeezed into the stadium seat, a **baseball** fan only by proxy, clutching a plastic cup of wine she didn't want.

Then he sat beside her—dark hair, kind eyes, a jacket that had seen better days. "First time?" he asked, and before she could answer, he added, "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Maria laughed, surprising herself. "Is it that obvious?"

"You've got that thousand-yard stare," he said. "Like you've seen things that would break weaker people."

They talked through seven innings—about his work as an ER nurse, about her soul-crushing job in HR, about the way the **palm** trees swayed against the twilight sky. He bought her **orange** juice from a vendor when she said wine wasn't helping. He didn't try to impress her. He just listened.

When the game ended, he walked her to her car. "I'm Ethan," he said. "In case you were wondering."

"Maria."

"Maria." He tested her name like it was something precious. "Can I see you again?"

She nodded, something loosening in her chest that had been tight for years. The **zombie** feeling receded, just a little. The **bull** at work would still be there on Monday. The spreadsheets would still need doing. But for now, under the **palm** trees and stadium lights, with **orange** juice on her lips and the echo of **baseball** fading behind her, Maria felt something she'd forgotten how to feel: hope.