The Palm Reader's Strike Zone

The water in the **pool** rippled like the uneasy surface of Martin's conscience. He sat on the lounge chair, his **palm** sweating against the condensation of his third gin and tonic, watching the corporate retreat unfold around him. Forty-seven years old, and he'd become what he once swore he'd never be: a **zombie** in a suit, shuffling through quarterly projections and team-building exercises.

"You've got a short life line," a woman said, dropping onto the adjacent chair. She was maybe thirty, with knowing eyes and a margarita. "But your head line—they say that's about your intellectual journey. Yours goes straight across. Determined."

Martin laughed, surprised. "You read palms in your spare time?"

"Occupational hazard. I'm in HR." She extended her hand. "Sarah."

"Martin." He shook it, and something sparked—a recognition of possibility he hadn't felt since his father died.

"My dad taught me to keep my eye on the ball," Martin found himself saying. "**Baseball** was his religion. He said life was like stepping up to the plate—you either swing or you stand there watching pitches go by." He swallowed hard. "I've been standing in the batter's box for twenty years, Sarah. Not swinging. Just... watching."

She looked at him, really looked at him. "So swing."

"What if I miss?"

"Then you miss." She stood up, kicked off her sandals. "But at least you can say you stepped up to the plate." Without another word, she dove into the **water**.

Martin watched her surface, sleek and alive in the chlorine-blue depths. His phone buzzed on the table—an email from his VP about tomorrow's presentation. He picked it up, his thumb hovering over the screen, then set it down face-down.

The **water** rippled again as Sarah pulled herself up the ladder, water streaming from her hair like she'd been reborn. She didn't look back at him, but Martin found himself standing, pulling off his tie, toeing off his loafers. The **pool** edge caught against his calves as he stepped forward, his heart hammering like a runner trying to steal home.

His **palm** pressed flat against the concrete. He jumped.