The Palm Reader's Last Customer

The neon sign buzzed above her head like a dying insect. Madame Zora's palm-reading shop, the last desperate stop on the Vegas strip for tourists seeking meaning in their chaotic lives.

Clara sat across from her, extending her left palm. The lines were deep, etched by years of gripping steering wheels, holding children, and clenching fists in frustration.

"I see water," the old woman said, her voice like dry leaves. "Drowning, but not dying. You're swimming through something you can't name."

Clara's throat tightened. Three years of marriage to Richard, and she still couldn't articulate what was wrong. Only that she was submerged, holding her breath, waiting for something to change.

"And here," the woman traced Clara's life line, "there's a pyramid. Not the ancient kind. The corporate structure. You're climbing it, but it's crushing you."

Outside, a stray dog barked at passing tourists. Clara had wanted a dog once. Richard had said they were too messy, too much responsibility. Like children, he'd added, and the words had hung between them like smoke.

"Your heart line," Madame Zora continued, "it breaks. Someone promised you forever, but forever has an expiration date."

Clara pulled her hand back. "How much?"

"Tonight, it's free. You're my last customer anyway."

"Closing down?"

"Moving to the beach. Watching real water instead of predicting it in people's hands." The old woman smiled, revealing teeth too perfect to be her own. "Life's too short for other people's futures."

Clara walked out into the neon night. She'd missed dinner with Richard. He'd be angry, or worse, disappointed—that quiet disappointment that felt like being erased.

A baseball game flickered on a bar television. She remembered her father taking her to games, the crack of the bat, the sun on her face, the feeling that everything was possible.

She'd stopped believing in possible years ago.

Her phone buzzed. Richard, no doubt. She let it ring.

Instead, she found herself at a pet adoption event outside a casino. A golden retriever puppy pressed its nose against the chain-link fence, looking at her with eyes that said *choose me*.

The pyramid of her marriage, the corporate ladder she'd climbed while her dreams decayed, the endless striving—it all seemed suddenly ridiculous.

Clara opened her purse and checked her savings. Enough for a deposit on an apartment. Enough for a fresh start.

The puppy licked her hand through the fence.

"You," she said, "and me. We're getting out of here."

For the first time in three years, Clara could breathe again.