The Last Reading

Madame Zora's parlor smelled of incense and desperation. Elena sat across from her, extending her palm with practiced hesitation. The lines on her hand had already determined enough of her life—she'd married young, worked as a paralegal for fifteen years, and discovered at forty-two that she didn't know who she was without someone else's name attached to hers.

"Your life line is strong," Zora said, her fingernail tracing the crease. "But your head line—see how it fragments? You've been making decisions with your heart, not your mind."

Elena thought of Marcus, asleep in their bed back home. Of how she'd ordered spinach feta omelets every Sunday morning because he claimed to love them, though she'd learned two years ago—through a casual comment from his sister—that he hated them. He'd never corrected her. She'd never stopped ordering.

"What do you see for my future?" Elena asked.

Zora's hand stilled. A storm had been brewing all afternoon, and suddenly lightning fractured the room's dim light, casting their shadows in sharp relief against the lavender walls. The thunder followed immediately, shaking the floorboards.

"I see a choice," Zora said quietly. "Not what will happen, but what you're afraid to make."

Elena withdrew her hand. She'd come here wanting permission to leave, or perhaps wanting someone to tell her to stay. What she'd gotten was the truth she'd known all along: that the omens didn't matter, that fate was just another word for cowardice dressed up as mysticism.

She paid the woman and walked out into the rain, not bothering with her umbrella. The storm felt appropriate somehow—cleansing, violent, honest. She'd go home and pack. She'd leave a note. She'd order spinach feta omelets for herself somewhere else, somewhere new, and she'd eat them knowing exactly why she'd chosen them.