What the Palm Reader Saw

The corporate retreat had been Sarah's idea—three days in Miami to 'reconnect as a team.' Whatever that meant. I was fourth in line for the palm reader they'd hired, some entertainment corporate dollars could buy.

The woman took my hand, her fingers rough and warm. She traced the lines across my palm with surprising deliberation, then stopped. Just stopped.

'You're not dead,' she said, 'but you've been walking around like you are for years.' She tapped my life line. 'This isn't a zombie apocalypse, honey. You're choosing this.'

I laughed because that's what you do. But something in my chest cracked open.

When I got back to the hotel room, Sarah was already asleep—face turned away, the space between us wide enough to drive through. We'd been married seven years, and I couldn't remember the last time we'd really spoken. Not about work schedules or dinner or whose turn it was to walk the dog.

Barnaby was at my parents' house back home. Sometimes I thought he was the only thing keeping me tethered to something real. That dog loved me with an uncomplicated devotion I hadn't earned.

I stood on the balcony watching the sun dip below the horizon, bleeding orange across the sky like a wound that wouldn't heal. The palm reader's words kept circling: *you're choosing this.*

Sarah woke and found me there. 'What are you doing?' she asked, voice thick with sleep.

'Thinking about zombies,' I said.

She frowned. 'What?'

'People who aren't dead but act like they are.' I turned to face her. 'I don't want to be one anymore.'

The silence stretched between us, long and terrifying and finally honest.

'Me either,' she said.

The orange light faded. Somewhere below, the party continued. But for the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about checking out. I was thinking about what it might take to really check in.