What the Palm Couldn't Hold

The palm reader's stall smelled of incense and desperation. Elena sat across from the woman with the too-bright scarves, extending her left hand.

"You're at a crossroads," the woman said, tracing the life line with a nicotine-stained finger. "But you already knew that."

Elena pulled her hand back. The reading had cost fifty dollars she couldn't afford. Her marriage of twelve years had ended three months ago. Marcus had moved out with his golf clubs and his vintage vinyl, leaving behind their apartment and the silence that Elena still couldn't get used to.

She stopped at the corner market on the way home. The oranges were on sale — three for a dollar. She bought six, their weight heavy in her canvas bag. Inside the apartment, she peeled one, the citrus scent sharp and clean, cutting through the stale air.

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill. Comet, the fish Marcus had bought her on their fifth anniversary, was floating sideways near the surface. He'd been dying for days. Elena had been changing the water, adding the drops the pet store clerk had recommended, but it wasn't helping.

She dropped a flake of food onto the water's surface. Comet didn't move.

"I know," she said aloud. "I know."

The apartment felt enormous without Marcus's things. The palm reader had told her she'd meet someone new in the fall, that her career would take an unexpected turn. But Elena didn't want unexpected turns anymore. She wanted something solid, something that wouldn't swim away or walk out the door.

She finished the orange, licking the juice from her fingers. Outside, the city was turning gold with sunset. Somewhere, Marcus was probably drinking wine with someone new, someone who didn't cry over dying fish or pay strangers to read her future in cheap festival booths.

Elena reached into the bowl and cupped the goldfish in her palm. It was barely moving, its gills fluttering weakly against her skin. She carried it to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet, then stood watching the water swirl.

Back in the kitchen, she peeled another orange. The sections separated perfectly in her hands. She ate them one by one, standing at the window, watching the sky darken. Tomorrow she would call her sister about that spare room. Tomorrow she would update her resume. Tonight, she would eat oranges and not think about palm readers or goldfish or the way her life had become unrecognizable.

The orange was sweet, slightly tart, perfect. She finished it and reached for another.