Wellness Wednesday

The Wellness Wednesday flyer sat on Elena's desk like a threat. "Free palm readings! Vitamin consultations! Mindfulness for the modern professional!"

She'd brought Buster to the office again—her emotional support dog, technically, though mostly just a rescue who ate shoes and barked at the mail carrier. Her therapist had suggested the vitamin regimen too. B-complex for anxiety. D for the winter blues. A small orange pharmacy in her purse, a daily ritual of swallowing promises.

Buster nudged her hand with his wet nose, demanding attention.

"Not now, buddy."

The palm reader had set up shop in the breakroom, between the vending machine and the sink. Elena waited until everyone else had gone back to their desks, until the fluorescent lights buzzed alone.

The woman—her nametag read "Luna"—took Elena's hand without asking. Her own palms were rough, calloused. Not a mystic's hands. A worker's.

"You're carrying something," Luna said, tracing the life line. "Heavy. Recent?"

Elena thought of Marcus in Sales, the way he looked at her across the morning meeting. His wedding ring loose on his finger. The late-night texts she hadn't answered.

"My dog died," she lied, and felt something twist in her chest. Buster was alive, asleep under her desk right now. But something else had died. Something nameless.

Luna frowned. "That's not what I see."

She pressed her thumb into Elena's palm, harder than necessary. "I see a choice coming. One you've been putting off."

The vitamins in Elena's purse suddenly felt heavy. A choice she'd been putting off. Marcus. The pills. The job she'd stayed in too long.

"Wellness Wednesday," Elena said bitterly. "What a joke."

Luna's expression softened. "Honey, we're all just trying to feel something different than what we feel."

Back at her desk, Buster lifted his head, thumped his tail. Elena looked at the vitamins in her purse, at Marcus's empty cubicle next door—out on a sales call, probably.

She poured the vitamins into the trash.

Then she opened her phone, found Marcus's name, and typed: "Coffee. My place. 7 PM. No texts after."

Buster whined, stretching. Elena scratched him behind the ears, feeling her own pulse in her fingertips. Some choices were terrifying. Some were simple.

She hit send.