The Palm Reader's Prophecy
Marlena pressed her palm against the glass of the resort balcony, the condensation cool against her skin. Below, the Caribbean water stretched toward infinity, an expanse of blue that made her feel small in a way she usually found comforting. Tonight, it just made her tired.
"You're doing that thing again," David said from behind her. He was already undressed, his pale skin glowing ghostly in the dim light. "That zombie thing. Where you're here but not here."
She turned. The sun was setting, painting everything in bruised shades of orange and violet. A perfect honeymoon sunset, the kind travel agents promised in brochures. She'd spent the last three years of her life selling dreams like this to other people, arranging honeymoons and anniversary trips while her own relationship withered like a neglected houseplant.
"I'm not a zombie," she said, but even to her own ears it lacked conviction.
"You are, though." David moved closer, his hand finding hers. His palm was warm, alive. "You've been one since the merger. Since they made you choose between your promotion and—you know. Us."
The water below caught the last light, glittering like spilled jewels. Marlena felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been sealed shut since the day she'd chosen the corner office over the house in the suburbs, the business class tickets over the possibility of a child, the quarterly targets over the quiet domestic life David had wanted.
"I chose wrong," she said, the orange light catching the tears before they fell. "God, David. I've been walking around dead for three years and I didn't even know it until this moment."
His arms came around her then, and for the first time in a thousand days, she felt herself lean into him instead of pulling away. The zombie stirred, opened its eyes, remembered what it was to be human. The water reflected their embrace, two silhouettes against a dying sun, and somewhere in the distance, palm fronds whispered in the wind like old prophecies finally coming true.