Laps in the Shallow End

The corporate retreat brochure had promised 'unlimited possibilities,' but the only possibility Elena could see was third-degree sunburn. She sat at the edge of the hotel pool, feet dangling in water that smelled aggressively of chlorine and suppressed desperation, watching her colleagues perform their ritualistic mating dances with upper management. Greg from Accounting was currently doing laps, his thinning hair plastered to his skull like seaweed on a rock, while shouting something about synergy to anyone within earshot.

Elena pulled the brim of her sun hat lower. It was a ridiculous purchase—fifty dollars for what amounted to a emotional shield—but last night, after Dave had told her he was taking the promotion she'd been working toward for three years ('You understand, El, right? You're not ready for the visibility'), she'd stood in the drugstore aisle and grabbed it off the rack. Under the cover of its shadow, she'd been pulling out her gray hairs one by one since breakfast, a little gardening project in reverse.

'Hiding from the networking?'

Elena jumped. Dave stood over her, dripping wet, holding what looked like his fourth mimosa. His hair was plastered to his forehead in that way that made him look like a seal. 'Just needed some quiet,' she said, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

'You know,' Dave said, sitting beside her, 'I'm really going to need your support on the new account. You have the institutional knowledge.' He leaned closer, his breath smelling of orange juice and career advancement. 'And maybe lay off the hat? You're sending the wrong message.'

Elena looked at the pool. At the bottom, near the drain, something glinted—a lost earring, maybe, or someone's dignity. 'You know what, Dave?' She pulled off her hat and dropped it in his lap. 'I think I'm done sending messages.'

She stood up and walked toward the pool house, leaving him sputtering, and didn't look back at the ripples spreading across the water's surface like something finally breaking open.