Dead Pool Tuesday

Mara discovered the betting pool on a Tuesday, tucked inside a spreadsheet labeled 'Q3 Projections.' Column A: names. Column B: dates. Column C: dollar amounts. Her name sat at row fourteen, October 15th, $450 riding on her resignation.

She'd thought Elena was a friend. They'd shared drinks after Marcus's funeral last year, weeping over cheap merlot while Elena confessed she couldn't afford her rent. Now Mara understood why Elena always insisted on picking up the tab.

The office pool had been running for three years.HR would claim they'd investigate, but they wouldn't. The same men who'd slapped twenty bucks on the desk when Mara's mother died would simply shuffle the spreadsheet deeper into their shared drive.

She went home early, claiming migraines. Her cat, Binx, wound around her legs, demanding dinner. Mara emptied a can of tuna into his bowl, then stood staring at her own refrigerator. wilted spinach, expired yogurt, a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio. She'd missed grocery shopping during her mother's hospice weeks. Elena had brought casseroles then, too.

The community pool across the street glowed blue in the twilight. Mara watched from her window as a lone swimmer cut through the water, rhythmic and certain. She imagined walking down there fully dressed, phone in pocket, and simply sinking beneath the surface. Not to die—just to exist somewhere weightless for one minute.

Instead she opened a bag of pre-washed spinach, poured wine into a jelly jar, and sat on her fire escape. Binx joined her, pressing his warm flank against her thigh. She calculated her savings, her mortgage, the cost of starting over at forty-two.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Elena: 'Everything okay? Saw you left early.'

Mara typed: 'Fine. Just tired.' Then she deleted it, blocked Elena's number, and opened a new document. She titled it 'Resignation Letter' and began to type.