The Lightning Split the Palm

Maya stood on the balcony of the 22nd floor, her third glass of chardonnay warming her blood against the November chill. Below, the city sprawled like a spilled circuit board, and somewhere in the distance, lightning fractured the sky—a sudden, violent illumination that made her think of Daniel's smile when he'd told her he was leaving.

"You look like you're plotting murder," a voice said behind her.

She turned to find Elias, the fox-eyed senior partner from the London office. His palm rested against the glass door, casual and proprietary. They'd slept together three times at the Berlin conference, back when she still believed that office affairs could be compartmentalized, that desire could be turned off like a switch.

"Just thinking about how easily things break," she said, and something in her tone must have registered because his expression shifted from flirtatious to searching.

The balcony door opened again. This time it was Sarah from HR, holding a cat-themed coffee mug that Maya had given her for Secret Santa last year. Sarah's eyes darted between them, sharp and knowing. The office grapevine moved faster than light; by morning, half the floor would have a version of this moment.

"Daniel's in there," Sarah said, too brightly. "Asking about you."

Maya finished her wine. The storm was moving closer now, another fork of lightning writthing across the clouds. She thought about how she'd traced the lifeline on Daniel's palm that morning he'd packed his boxes, how he'd laughed when she'd told him she saw their future there.

Some futures were better left unread.

"Tell him I went home," Maya said, setting down her glass. She didn't look at Elias, didn't acknowledge the way his palm still pressed against the glass as if marking territory. The wind whipped her hair across her face as she pushed past them both, and somewhere in the distance, thunder broke like the end of something she should have seen coming all along.