Palm Springs Apocalypse

The replica sphinx rose from the manicured lawn like an ancient joke—white stone eyes staring at the infinity pool, at the tanned bodies of venture capitalists, at Elena's trembling hands.

"Your lifeline's interrupted," the fortune teller said, tracing the crease in Elena's palm with a nicotine-stained finger. "Something cut it short."

Elena pulled her hand away. The pool party spun around her—champagne flutes rising like glasses to toast, her husband David across the deck showing his phone to the founder of that crypto startup, laughing too loudly. The same way he'd laughed three nights ago when she asked if he was happy. The same way he'd been laughing for seven years, since their wedding in this same goddamn resort.

"Everything gets interrupted," Elena said, and reached for her iPhone in the pocket of her linen dress. The screen lit up with a notification: *Calendar reminder: Marriage counseling, 4pm tomorrow.*

She'd scheduled it this morning while David slept. He hadn't noticed her leaving the bed. He never noticed anything anymore—unless it affected his stock options.

The fortune teller—whose nametag read "Star, Corporate Entertainment Specialist"—watched her with pitying eyes. "You already know what you're going to do."

Did she? Elena thought about the sphinx, how tourists took selfies in front of it, reducing millennia of mystery to a backdrop. That was her marriage now—a prop in someone else's story.

David was walking toward them, iPhone in hand, that entrepreneur's grin plastered across his face. "Honey, you have to hear this pitch—"

Elena looked at her palm. At the line Star had traced. At the interruption.

"David," she said, and her voice sounded strange in her own ears. "I scheduled a lawyer instead."

The sphinx watched them both in silence.