The Last Living Thing

Elena sat on the edge of the infinity pool, her legs dangling in the cool blue water, watching Richard play padel with three men whose names she'd already forgotten. They laughed and slapped backs, their competitive energy shimmering across the court like heat waves. Richard, at forty-seven, still moved with the easy confidence of a man who'd never been told no.

She took a sip of her rosé and watched the ornamental goldfish swimming lazy circles in the pond beside the pool—orange flashes in the dark water, beautiful and utterly contained. She'd been Richard's wife for fifteen years, and somewhere around year twelve, she'd begun to understand those fish. Safe, fed, and going nowhere.

"You look like someone who needs to hear the truth."

Elena jumped. A woman in a flowing white dress stood beside her chaise—old, wrinkled like a raisin, with eyes that seemed to see everything. The resort palm reader, apparently. Elena had thought they were a myth, something from a brochure.

"I'm fine," Elena said automatically.

"Give me your palm." The old woman didn't ask; she commanded.

And Elena, exhausted by the performance of happiness, extended her hand. The woman traced the lines with fingers rough as tree bark, shaking her head slowly.

"You've been walking dead for three years," she said. "The life line is there, but the heart... your heart stopped beating before you even met him."

"That's not—"

"You're a zombie, child. Living, breathing, but not alive. The question is: do you want to stay in the pool with the goldfish, or do you finally want to climb out?"

Richard waved from the padel court, victorious. Elena looked at her palm, at the creases that supposedly held her fate, and felt something stir in her chest—something that had been dormant for so long she'd forgotten its name.

She stood up, water dripping from her legs, and didn't wave back.