Storm Reading

The corporate retreat was exactly what Marcus expected: mandatory fun in a beachfront cabana where half the attendees were already three margaritas deep. He stood by the window watching lightning stitch the sky, each flash briefly illuminating the desperate faces around him.

"You look like the walking dead," said Sarah, the woman from accounting he'd been exchanging charged emails with for months. She held up a hand, **palm** open. "Let me see your future. My grandmother read palms in the old country."

Marcus almost laughed. "I'm thirty-five, Sarah. My future is quarterly reports and wondering why I haven't used my gym membership in two years."

"Humor me." Her fingers traced the lines on his hand. "You're going to meet someone. Soon. Someone who makes you feel alive again."

Her **hair** fell across her face as she looked down, and he fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear. They'd been dancing around whatever this was for six months, late-night emails escalating into texts that had nothing to do with work, everything to do with the hollow feeling in their chests.

"We're all **zombies**," Marcus said quietly, gesturing at their colleagues grinding against each other to music that was too loud. "Going through the motions. Waiting for something to happen."

"Something is happening." Sarah stepped closer. Her perfume smelled like vanilla and hesitation. "But you're too scared to see it."

A crash of thunder shook the cabana. The lights flickered and died. In the darkness, Marcus felt her hand find his again, fingers threading through his like she'd been waiting for this moment, for the cover of darkness, for permission to cross the line they'd both been so carefully not crossing.

"Your grandmother," he whispered. "Did she really read palms?"

"No." Her breath was warm against his neck. "She just knew what people needed to hear."

Outside, the storm broke. Lightning flashed again, and for once, Marcus didn't look away.