The Palm Reader's Dead Cat

Maria woke at 3 AM, palm slick against sweat, heart hammering like she'd been running. The cat—Eleanor's mangy tabby—sat on her chest, purring with the weight of judgment.

"You look like a zombie," her sister had said yesterday. Maria had wanted to scream: I AM one. Corporate hierarchy was a pyramid scheme of souls, and she'd traded hers for a corner office and a 401k.

Her boss was a bull of a man, all bellow and no listen. yesterday he'd slammed his fist on her desk. "I want numbers that make sense, Maria. Not this bull you're feeding me."

She'd nodded, swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and gone home to microwave dinner for two while Eleanor watched reruns.

Eleanor, who'd once read palms at Venice Beach for twenty bucks a pop. "You'll have a long life," she'd told Maria the night she got the corporate offer. "But the short line's broken. Means you'll die twice."

Maria had laughed. Taken the job. Moved them into this apartment with its cracked windows and paper-thin walls.

Now the cat butted her chin. Maria stroked its fur, thinking about the resignation letter she'd drafted—then deleted—four times. The corporate pyramid required fresh blood, and she'd been feeding hers into its mouth for eight years.

"Bullshit," she whispered.

The cat meowed in agreement.

Maria rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting cold linoleol. In the living room, Eleanor's old palm-reading cards lay scattered on the coffee table. Maria picked one up: THE FOOL, walking toward a cliff, bright sun behind him.

She grabbed her phone. Typed: I quit. Hit send before her nerve could turn zombie again.

The cat padded into the room, tail flicking. Through the window, a palm tree swayed in the dawn wind, fronds catching first light like gold coins.

Maria exhaled. For the first time in eight years, she could actually breathe.