Floating Point

The corporate retreat was Richardson's idea—of course it was. We were all gathered around the infinity **pool** at the resort in Scottsdale, nursing overpriced drinks and pretending we weren't mentally drafting resignation letters. The **papaya** in the fruit display looked lonely, exposed, too vivid against the manufactured pastel of the cabanas.

I kept pulling my **hat** lower, wondering if I could make it through one more weekend of Richardson's "accidental" touches during presentations, his comments about how I'd "blossomed" since my promotion. The man radiated the confidence of someone who'd never been told no, or at least never heard it.

Then came the final insult: Richardson's emotional support **dog**, some frantic terrier mix that he'd brought along for "anxiety," though the only person whose anxiety seemed to require a service animal was mine. The creature spent the entire retreat yipping at predatory shadows, pissing on expensive furniture, and somehow—somehow—being rewarded for it.

"He's just sensing my energy," Richardson said, scratching the dog's ears while gesturing vaguely toward me. "Animals know who's authentic."

I stared at the papaya, thinking about how fruit rots from the inside out. About how my mother had taken early retirement rather than endure one more year of her own Richardson, and how I'd sworn I'd be different. Braver.

The dog bounded toward the pool, snatching up a floating drink coaster like it was prey, shaking it violently while Richardson laughed—this deep, unselfconscious sound that made me realize with sickening clarity: he would never understand. He would never see himself.

And in that moment, something broke open inside me. Not quiet, not patient. Something wild and toothy.

I stood up, walked over to Richardson, and placed my drink in his hand. "You know what?" I said, my voice steady as I'd never heard it. "I think he's sensing your energy, too."

I turned toward the resort exit, not bothering to pack. The papaya would rot. Richardson would find someone else to patronize. But I—god, I was finally leaving the pool.