The Palm Reader's Last Tuesday

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, peeling an orange with practiced precision. The citrus scent hit her—sharp, bright, violently nostalgic. Three years ago on this day, Julian had left. No dramatic fight. Just a note on the counter and half-drunk coffee gone cold.

Her phone buzzed. Another Slack notification from that damn fox of a boss, Cameron, who'd already asked three times if the Q3 projections were ready. Mara should've been working. Instead she was staring at the orange segments like they might contain answers.

Her golden retriever, Buster, nudged her hand with that wet, insistent nose of his. He'd been Julian's dog originally, a rescue they'd taken in together. Now Buster was hers, though his eyes still searched the door whenever keys jingled in the hallway.

"You and me both, buddy," she whispered.

Outside her apartment window, Los Angeles stretched toward the ocean. Palm trees stood like sentinels against the salmon-colored sky—beautiful, alien, impossible. She'd moved here for Julian. For his dream of making it in the entertainment industry. Now the dream was hers by default, a coat that didn't quite fit but kept her warm enough.

Cameron messaged again: "Client call in 10. You good?"

Mara typed back: "Always."

She popped an orange segment into her mouth. The sweetness burst, sharp and perfect. Some days she missed Julian so much she couldn't breathe. Other days, like today, she realized she'd been slowly, imperceptibly becoming someone else entirely—someone who could handle clients and projections and a city that promised everything and delivered nothing.

Buster rested his chin on her knee. His brown eyes held that particular wisdom dogs possess, the kind that says: this is simply what is.

Mara finished the orange, wiped her sticky hands on a paper towel, and opened her laptop. The client call would be fine. The projections would be done. Los Angeles would keep existing in all its bizarre, beautiful unreality.

She was still here. That had to count for something.