The Last Palm Reading

The day Mara left, she took everything except the cat. Barnaby sat on the windowsill now, watching the street with the same judgmental expression Mara had worn during those final months. His orange fur glowed in the afternoon light, a vibrant reminder that life continued even when yours felt finished.

Emma swallowed another vitamin D supplement — the third one that day, though the bottle warned against exceeding the recommended dose. Her doctor had prescribed them after the divorce proceedings began, noting how pale she'd become. She was never outside anymore. Why would she be? The world had narrowed to the dimensions of this apartment, the spaces where Barnaby chose to sleep, and the empty side of the bed.

The palm reader's card had been tucked in Mara's jewelry box for years. Emma found it while searching for the earrings she'd foolishly hoped Mara wouldn't take. Madame Celeste, the card proclaimed, Palm Reader & Spiritual Advisor. Mara had gone on a bachelorette weekend to New Orleans and come back with tarot cards, ghost stories, and this slightly ridiculous business card. She'd laughed about it then, her palm soft and warm in Emma's hand as she traced the life line with drunken fascination.

"She said I'd have two great loves," Mara had whispered against Emma's neck that night. "But she couldn't tell if they'd be at the same time."

Emma's own palm was creased with decisions she hadn't made yet. She pressed her thumb into the center, feeling the pulse that meant she was still, somehow, alive. The vitamin bottle sat on the nightstand like a promise she couldn't keep to herself. Take care of yourself, people said. As if self-preservation were a simple matter of swallowing the right things.

Barnaby meowed, jumping down and padding toward the kitchen. His bowl was empty. Emma stood, her joints stiff, and realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. The cat would survive. He always did. He had survived Mara's departure, her long work hours, her allergy medication, the way she'd sometimes forgotten he existed until he knocked something off a counter.

The orange sunset spilled through the window as Emma opened a can of cat food. Barnaby rubbed against her legs, purring like a small engine. For the first time in weeks, something about the future seemed worth showing up for. Not for her — not yet. But for this creature who had chosen to stay.

She'd call the palm reader tomorrow. What did she have to lose?

Emma set down the bowl and watched him eat. Her own palm traced the countertop, fingers finding the grain of wood Mara had selected five years ago. The life line, they called it. It didn't predict the future. It just proved you had one.