Drifting Above the Empty Pool

The corporate retreat was Elena's idea of hell, which was ironic considering she'd suggested it. She stood on the balcony of her fourth-floor room at the Desert Palms Resort, staring down at the **pool** below — empty now, drained for repairs, its blue surface cracked and peeling like dead skin.

Three Scotches in, she watched the others down there. Marcus from Accounting was holding court, holding forth, holding his drink like he was conducting an orchestra. He was full of **bull** tonight, spinning tales about quarterly projections that everyone nodded at, even though they knew he was making up numbers as he went. That was the job, wasn't it? The art of sounding confident while selling nothing.

"You're not swimming," a voice said.

Elena turned. David from Marketing stood in the balcony doorway, silhouette sharp against the warm light of her room. He held two drinks.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how **swimming** through bullshit is basically a job requirement now."

He laughed, short and surprised, and handed her a glass. They stood together at the railing, not touching but close enough that she could smell his cologne — sandalwood and something expensive. Below, the corporate **sphinx** of the evening continued: riddles without answers, questions without point. Who's getting promoted? Who's leaving? Who slept with whom?

"You know what I used to want to be?" Elena said suddenly. The alcohol had loosened something in her chest. "An archaeologist. I wanted to dig up things that mattered. Things that survived."

"And now you dig up receipts from 2019."

"Now I dig up receipts from 2019."

David's hand found hers on the railing. His thumb traced her knuckles. "We could leave."

"The presentation's at 9 AM."

"Fuck the presentation. We could rent a car. Drive until the road ends."

It was the alcohol. It was the empty pool reflecting nothing. It was the way he looked at her, like she was something worth discovering instead of something to be managed.

"You're a **fox**," she said, smiling.

"Is that good?"

"Cunning. Clever. Dangerous."

"I'll take dangerous."

His kiss tasted like Scotch and possibility. Below, Marcus was still talking, still selling, still spinning his golden **bull** while the empty pool waited, patient and dry, holding nothing but the weight of all the things they didn't say.

Elena pulled back just enough to whisper, "Let's go."