The Palm Reader's Pool

She'd been swimming in the hotel pool for three hours, trying to wash off the conference — the fluorescent lights, the endless PowerPoint slides, the way her colleagues moved like corporate zombies through the expo hall, collecting swag bags and business cards with dead eyes. Her skin was pruning. She'd forgotten to reapply sunscreen.

"You're going to burn," said a voice from behind her.

She turned. A woman in her sixities sat on a lounge chair, arranging tarot cards on a small folding table. A sign beside her: PALM READINGS — $20.

"I've already burned," the woman said, pulling herself from the pool. Water cascaded off her like she was shedding something heavy. "On the inside."

The palm reader laughed, a dry, knowing sound. "Honey, we're all burning. That's why we're here." She gestured to the pool. "Look at them. All these people, floating in circles. Like vitamins dissolving in water — they think they're nourishing something, but really they're just disappearing."

It was the most honest thing anyone had said to her in years.

She sat down across from the palm reader, held out her hand.

"You're tired," the woman said, tracing her life line. "No, not tired. Empty. You gave everything to something that didn't give back. Marriage? Job?" She looked up. "Both. I can see it in the break in your head line."

"I don't know who I am anymore," she whispered, surprised by her own confession. "I'm just... going through motions. Like I'm one of them." She nodded toward the pool, where more zombie-like executives had gathered, drinks in hand, laughing mechanical laughs.

The palm reader squeezed her hand. "The good news about hitting rock bottom is there's nowhere left to fall." She closed the woman's fingers into a fist. "You know what you need?"

"A new life?" she asked, half-joking.

"No." The palm reader picked up a bottle from her bag. "Vitamin D. And to stop trying so damn hard to be something you're not." She tossed the bottle. "Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, you figure out what you actually want."

She caught the bottle. For the first time in months, something inside her shifted. Not everything. But something.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't thank me yet." The palm reader shuffled her cards. "You haven't seen your future."