The Palm Reader's Detox

Mara stood at the office kitchen sink, her hands trembling as she forced down another cup of lukewarm water. The corporate lights hummed above her, fluorescent and unforgiving. Three days into her detox—spinach smoothies, distilled water, zero coffee—she felt less like a person and more like a zombie going through the motions of being alive.

"You look like hell," said Leo, leaning against the counter. He was the kind of man who aged well, whose creases suggested wisdom rather than exhaustion. "What's with the health kick anyway?"

Mara watched the water swirl down the drain. "Palm reading told me I'd die at forty if I didn't change my ways. I'm thirty-eight."

Leo laughed, then saw her face. "You're serious."

"She knew things, Leo. Things she couldn't have known. About my mother. About the

job I quit in grad school." Mara pressed her palms against her eyes. "I'm so tired of being this person."

"Then don't be."

She looked at him—really looked at him. For three years they'd shared cubicles, coffee runs, the occasional happy hour. She'd never noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, or how he always seemed to know when she needed space versus when she needed someone to simply exist alongside her.

"I could help you with that detox," Leo said quietly. "Not the water part—I draw the line at

spinach. But the rest? The being alive part?"

Later, they'd laugh about how it started with wilted spinach and a questionable fortune teller. Later, they'd trace the lines on each other's palms and make up their own futures. But in that fluorescent kitchen, with her hands still damp from the tap, Mara simply nodded.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

The zombie woke up. The water kept flowing. And somewhere, a palm reader's prediction began to change.