The Palm Reader's Portfolio

Mara traced the lifeline on the stranger's palm, her acrylic nail catching the fluorescent office lights. She used to do this for money on Venice Beach, reading futures in calloused hands. Now she read quarterly projections in Excel spreadsheets, the lines blurring together.

"Your earnings look strong," she told the junior analyst, though she was thinking of the goldfish bowl in her apartment—how those creatures swam in circles, forgetting everything every seven seconds. Sometimes she envied them. That would make forgetting Thomas easier.

Three years ago, Thomas had left her for someone who understood derivatives. Someone who didn't smell like sandalwood and sage. Someone normal.

The office TV in the break room showed a baseball game. Scores ticking upward like the metrics she analyzed daily. She watched a batter swing and miss, the crowd groaning. Strike three. She felt that in her chest sometimes—the whiffing at something important, the hollow sound of empty air.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Thomas: *Market's bullish. Thinking of you.*

The bull—the actual animal, not the market symbol—had always represented stubbornness to her. Bullheaded. Unyielding. Thomas was the most stubborn man she'd ever read, and she'd read hundreds. His palms had no future line, just a deep, confused tangle. She should've known.

She walked to the window. Twenty-six floors down, LA sprawled like broken glass. The palm trees lining the street looked like sentinels guarding nothing at all.

Her boss's voice behind her: "Mara, the Henderson account?"

She turned, smoothing her skirt. "On it, Dave."

Back at her desk, she caught sight of her reflection in the dark monitor. The woman staring back had traded magic for stability, mystery for a 401(k). But palm readers know something most people don't: the future isn't written. It's negotiated.

She picked up her phone and typed: *Meet me at the pier. Sunset.*

Sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns. Sometimes you have to remember that you're not a goldfish, that some things shouldn't be forgotten. That love, like baseball, is a game of inches—of almosts and not-quites, until suddenly, it's not.

She pressed send. Then she opened her desk drawer and touched the small crystal ball she'd kept there all along, just in case. The future, she decided, was hers to read again.