Geometry of Leaving

The brutalist pyramid of the Tower's apex cut into the grey Seattle sky like a geometric wound. Mara stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her corner office, twenty-seven floors up, watching the rain smear the city below. Behind her, on the mahogany desk she'd spent fifteen years earning, sat a single orange — the one David had placed there this morning with that careful smile of his, the one that always looked rehearsed now.

He used to leave notes. I love you. Have a good day, baby. Then the notes stopped, replaced by fruit. Apples, bananas, once a pomegranate she'd never asked for. As if vitamin C could compensate for what their marriage had become.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Richard: *We should talk about the Cairo project.* The proposal to build a luxury hotel complex within sight of the actual pyramids. The irony wasn't lost on her — modern monied pyramids casting shadows over ancient ones.

Richard's messages had grown more personal lately. *Your insight on the Dubai renderings was brilliant.* *I can't stop thinking about our conversation in the elevator.* The subtext was loud enough to shout.

Mara peeled the orange, her fingers staining with juice and memory. She and David had bought that goldfish together, nine years ago, at some seaside carnival in Oregon. They'd won it in a plastic bag, carried it home like a prize. It lived three years in a bowl on their nightstand, David insisting it was enough room, that goldfish didn't need much. She'd wanted to research, to buy a proper tank, but he'd waved her off.

*It's just a fish, Mara. Don't overthink everything.*

The fish died the week she got her promotion. They never talked about what that meant.

The pyramid-shaped building reflected in the window behind her, a mirror image floating in the glass. She'd climbed it rung by rung, this corporate pyramid, until she could see everything from its apex. Including the way her husband had slowly stopped looking at her like she was something to discover and started looking at her like something he'd already figured out.

Richard had sent blueprints this morning. Subject line: *Pyramid Suite — concept.* She'd opened them, then closed them without really seeing them. Her hand hovered over her phone.

The orange tasted sweet and sharp on her tongue, bright as forgiveness, bright as beginning.

She picked up her phone and typed two different messages in her head. One to David: *I think we need to talk.* One to Richard: *I'd like that coffee.*

Mara looked at the pyramid outside her window, then at the empty space where she would not be tomorrow. She typed only one message, her thumb steady for the first time in years.