The Palm Reader's Prescription

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed at 4 AM as Elena swallowed another vitamin D supplement, the pill scratching her throat like an accusation. Three years of fertility treatments, and her body remained a closed kingdom.

"You're swimming in data," Marcus said, appearing beside her desk. He shouldn't be here—Rachel was on maternity leave, and Marcus was married to Elena's best friend. But here he was, his palm flat against her desk, fingers spread like he was bracing for impact.

"The merger," Elena said, not looking up. "It's complicated."

"Everything's complicated." His voice dropped. "Rachel doesn't touch me anymore. Not since the baby."

Elena finally looked at him. His palm was still there, warm against the cold laminate. She thought about the palm reader she'd visited on impulse yesterday, how the woman had traced her lifeline with knowing fingers and said, "You're at a crossroads. Someone will offer you something you want, but it'll cost more than you think."

She'd laughed it off. Until now.

"Marcus," she said, "you should go."

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said, and the terrible part was that she couldn't stop thinking about him either—about how he made her feel seen in a way Rachel's perfect domestic life never had, about how his jealousy of her career had always felt like desire in disguise.

"I'm taking vitamin D," she heard herself say, apropos of nothing. "For the baby we're trying to have."

Marcus flinched. "I didn't know."

"Now you do."

He pulled his palm back slowly, the heat lingering on her desk. "I should go."

"Yes."

But he didn't. And Elena didn't either. The office lights buzzed on, two people drowning in the shallow water of their own making, while somewhere across the city, Rachel slept with her newborn, and the palm reader's prediction settled like dust in the space between them.