The Palm Reader's Prediction

Maria smoothed the red **orange** silk across her lap, the fabric cool against her skin. The retirement party was in full swing—cheap champagne, forced laughter, and the inevitable collection for a gift. She watched as her colleague of twenty years, David, held out his hand to the woman in the corner. The office **palm** reader, someone's brilliant idea for entertainment.

"Your heart line shows... turbulence," the woman said, tracing the creases in his hand. "But also resilience."

Maria remembered the **bull** market of 2019, how David had convinced her to invest everything in tech stocks. The crash had taken both their portfolios and their friendship with it. She'd never forgiven him, not really. But tonight, watching him laugh loudly at some joke, hisding a beige **hat** to cover his thinning hair, she felt something else.

He was scared. They all were—fifty years old, corporate casualties in the making.

"What did she say?" Maria found herself asking when he wandered over.

David shrugged, fingers toying with the brim of his hat. "That I'm at a crossroads. That I need to forgive someone before it's too late." He looked at her then, really looked at her, his eyes bloodshot from three drinks too many. "I never meant—"

"I know," she said. "Neither did I."

Outside, the California sunset burned through the palm fronds like blood on water. Maria thought about second chances, about how everyone at this party was lying about something—their ages, their happiness, their certainty that tomorrow would be any different from today. She extended her hand, palm up.

"Read mine," she said. "But tell me the truth this time."