Corporate Espionage of the Heart

The spinach stuck between Michael's teeth should have been my first warning. We were at that overpriced bistro downtown, him leaning in close to whisper about the merger, and I could see the green debris every time he smiled. I should have told him. Instead, I just watched it there, a small absurdity in the midst of his declaration that he'd been assigned to spy on the competing department.

"They think someone's leaking," he said, conspiratorial, excited. "I'll be embedded for months."

Months. The word settled in my chest like a stone.

Michael was my best friend at work, my ally after the restructuring, the person who understood why I still came in on Saturdays. We'd never crossed the line. Not really. There were drunk texts, hands that lingered too long on shoulders, but never anything that couldn't be explained away. Until tonight.

"You have something in your teeth," I said finally.

He laughed, self-conscious, running his tongue over his teeth. And then his hand moved to my face, thumb brushing my cheek, fingers tangling in my hair. "You know what I'll miss most?"

I knew. I'd known for months.

Later, at his apartment, we were finally swimming in all the unspoken things—the way he looked at me across conference tables, the emails that started friendly and grew hungry, his wife's name unspoken but present in every room of this too-perfect condo. I felt like I was drowning, the kind of drowning where you stop fighting and just let the water take you.

"This changes nothing," I said, afterwards, watching him dress. "We're still friends."

Michael paused, his back to me. "We were never just friends."

He left the next morning for his undercover assignment. I see him sometimes in the cafeteria, sitting with people from the other department, laughing, eating salads. I wonder if he ever finds himself pulling spinach from his teeth and remembering how easy it is to hide the obvious things, the things everyone sees but no one names.