The Palm Reader's Pitch

The cable guy had been here three hours. Sarah watched from the kitchen doorway as he drilled through their plaster walls, his ass crack visible above his tool belt. Another Tuesday in suburban paradise.

"Almost done, ma'am," he called out, not turning around.

She nodded, then drifted into the living room where Mark sat surrounded by brochures. His fourth this month. The Pyramid Pro Networking Opportunity—a multi-level marketing scheme disguised as financial freedom. He'd already sunk five grand into inventory those ugly protein shakes nobody wanted.

"Babe," Mark said, looking up with that desperate shine in his eyes. "This is different. The compensation structure is brilliant. You build your downline, you create residual income—it's exponential."

"We need money for groceries, Mark. Not more protein powder."

"That's the small thinking holding us back." He tapped the brochure. "This pyramid is about abundance mindset."

She left him there and went to the bathroom, locking the door. The medicine cabinet mirror was starting to silver at the edges. She looked at her hands, traced the lines on her left palm. Her grandmother had taught her palmistry when she was twelve, back before Grandma got sick and started forgetting everyone's names.

Life line. Heart line. Head line. Fate line. All there, supposedly mapping out the future she was living right now.

Her marriage line was a mess.

In the bedroom, her phone buzzed. Dan from work. They'd been flirting for months, nothing more than loaded glances across the conference room and drinks that lasted too long on Fridays. But she knew what he wanted.

She remembered the company softball game last summer. Standing in the outfield, Dan had coached her on catching fly balls. His hand had lingered on her waist when he adjusted her stance. The baseball had arced toward her, bright against the sky, and she'd missed it completely. They'd both laughed.

"You're thinking too much," he'd said. "Just trust your hands."

The cable guy knocked on the bathroom door. "All set, ma'am."

Sarah washed her face, cold water shocking her skin. She looked at her palm again. Those lines her grandmother claimed meant something. Maybe they did. Maybe she was the one who gave them meaning.

She unlocked the door and walked into the living room. Mark was watching an infomercial, volume low, some guy in a suit screaming about time freedom.

"Mark," she said.

"Hmm?"

"We need to talk."

He didn't look away from the screen. The cable was finally working, feeding them both exactly what they deserved.