Hierarchies

The tequila pyramid on table four said everything about this corporate retreat. Twelve inverted glasses, a precarious monument to excess that Richard had insisted on building after his third promotion in as many years.

"You're going to have to bear with him," Julia had whispered to me earlier by the pool, her hand briefly covering mine. "It's his night."

But it wasn't just tonight. It had been three years of bearing Richard's stories, bearing his sideways comments about my stalled career, bearing the way he looked at Julia across conference tables like she was a promotion he hadn't yet earned. The worst part was how she laughed — that practiced, weaponized charm that had gotten her through accounting firms and venture capital firms and now this sunset-streaked resort in Cabo.

The server brought another round. Richard's hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and familiar. "Marcus! You're thinking too much again. That's why you'll never make vice president."

Someone laughed. Julia didn't. She was studying her palm like she'd never seen the network of lines before, perhaps searching for the moment when everything between us had become conditional. When loving me had become another item on her to-do list, sandwiched between performance reviews and drinks with Richard.

"I need some air," I said.

The ocean was darker beyond the pool's edge. Palm fronds rustled in the wind, a sound like paper money counting itself. I could hear Richard beginning his story about the Tokyo office — the one Julia had heard seventeen times.

The pyramid of glasses remained standing. Tomorrow, someone would have to clean them up.

I didn't go back inside.