Dead Man's Float

The corporate retreat felt less like professional development and more like a funeral for my ambition. I floated in the hotel pool, arms spread, staring up at the merciless Nevada sun, feeling like something that should have been buried years ago. A zombie in a suit, still walking through motions while everything inside had already rotted away.

Marcus found me there. We hadn't spoken since his promotion over me—the one he'd sworn he wouldn't take, then did with a smile and a reassurance about how business wasn't personal. He stood poolside in his ridiculous Panama hat, holding two sweating gin and tonics like peace offerings or weapons.

"You've been out here an hour," he said, glasses sliding down his nose. "People are asking where you are."

I treaded water, watching the ripples expand toward him. "Let them wonder."

"It's been eighteen months, Elena." He set the drinks on the concrete table, sat on the edge, rolled up his trousers. "I thought you'd be over it by now."

"Over what?"

"The partner track. Us."

The water lapped against my shoulders, cold and indifferent. Us. There'd been an us, once—drunken nights at the office,的共同 victories, mornings waking up on his couch after breakdowns I'd rather forget. Then there was the promotion, the radio silence, the wedding invitation I'd returned marked "MOVED."

"We were never us," I said. "We were colleagues who mistook proximity for intimacy."

"That's not how I remember it." He swirled his gin, ice clicking. "I miss my friend."

The word hit me like something physical. Friend. The thing that walks away when it costs something. The thing that chooses advancement over loyalty.

"Your friend died," I said, pulling myself toward the ladder. "The moment you accepted that offer."

I climbed out, water streaming off me, dripping onto the concrete. Marcus stood, holding out my drink like an apology he didn't mean. I walked past him toward the hotel, leaving wet footprints that would evaporate within minutes.

Behind me, he called my name. But I was already gone—another ghost walking, another corpse climbing the corporate ladder toward nothing.