The Lines We Cross

Sara traced the life line on her left **palm**, noting how it forked unexpectedly—just like her marriage. The fortune teller in Atlantic City had promised longevity, said she'd live to ninety, but said nothing about happiness.

That was the summer she won the **goldfish** at the carnival, the one she'd named Lazarus for surviving the three-hour drive home in a plastic bag. Paul had carried it carefully, as if the fragile creature were their future together. They'd been twenty-three then, drunk on cheap beer and possibility, convinced love would be enough.

Now, in their sterile kitchen with its granite countertops and silence so thick it felt like weight, she wondered how much more she could **bear**. Paul's assistant's perfume on his collar. The business trips that somehow always aligned with their anniversaries. The way he'd stopped asking about her day.

"You're doing that thing again," Paul said, appearing in the doorway. "Reading your hand like it's got answers."

Sara looked at the man she'd loved for fifteen years, the one who'd once driven two hours in the rain to find her favorite tea, who'd held her while she cried over miscarriages and promotions alike.

"Remember Lazarus?" she asked.

"The fish? That was, what, a decade ago?"

"He lived for six years. Until the day you forgot to feed him before your Chicago trip."

Paul's expression shifted. "Sara—"

"You kept him alive, Paul. You literally gave him life, and you forgot him."

She stood up. "I think the fortune teller was wrong about my life line. It's not about how long. It's about when you finally start living it."

Sara walked to the bedroom, packed a bag. She didn't look at her palm again. Some futures you have to write yourself.