The Palm Reader's Last Tuesday

The corporate retreat was Elena's idea—team building, she'd called it, gathering the department at a rooftop bar while the city sprawled beneath us like glitter on black velvet. I'd spent three months secretly in love with her, watching her move through office politics like she was dancing to music only she could hear.

I found her by the railing, palm pressed against her forehead. Too much prosecco, or maybe just too much of everything.

"You missed the spinach incident," she said, laughing darkly. "Marcus had it stuck in his teeth through the entire presentation. Three million dollar budget proposal, delivered by a man who looked like he'd been grazing in a meadow."

I smiled, but my chest tightened. Tomorrow, Elena would transfer to London. The distance would be ocean-wide, final.

"There's a palm reader over there," she said, pointing to a corner where a woman with too much eyeliner sat behind a crystal ball. "Corporate entertainment budget at work. Want to see our future?"

"Our future?" The word slipped out before I could catch it.

Elena turned to me, really looked at me, for the first time. The noise of the retreat faded to blur. Her hat—a vintage cloche she'd worn all night—slipped slightly, and she didn't adjust it. Behind us, someone dropped a glass. Shattering everywhere.

"What if I said something?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "What if I've been waiting for you to say something for six months?"

The palm reader caught my eye, winked like she knew exactly how this story ended.

Tomorrow, London. Tonight, her hand finding mine in the darkness, palm to palm, the spinach still in Marcus's teeth, the hat finally slipping to the ground.

Some futures you pay for. Some you just have to show up for.