Last Call at the Continental

The orange neon sign buzzed outside, casting a sickly glow through the plate glass window where Marcus sat, nursing what had to be his fourth whiskey. He hadn't expected to see Elena again—not after the layoffs, not after everything that went down at the firm.

She slid onto the stool beside him, smelling of expensive perfume and late autumn rain. Three years since they'd stood in that glass-walled conference room watching security pack up their former friend David's things into cardboard boxes while their boss delivered the corporate bullshit about headcount reduction and market correction. Elena had nodded along. Marcus had said nothing.

"You ever think about him?" Elena asked now, gesturing for a martini.

"David?" Marcus swirled his glass. "Every time I look at my corner office."

She laughed, bitter and sharp. "He saw it coming. Told me about the office betting pool on who'd be next. We were both on the list."

The silence stretched between them like the years that had passed.

"I heard you got married," Marcus said.

"Divorced. Last month."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." She downed half her martini in one swallow. "You know what the fucked up thing is? David was the only one who reached out after. Sent me a letter when my mother died. Came to the funeral. Some friend we turned out to be."

Marcus remembered his own mother's funeral two years ago—the plastic flowers, the awkward handshakes, the hollow condolences from people he'd known for decades. David had been there too. David, who now owned a successful pool installation business in Arizona. Who sent Christmas cards. Who had probably learned more about integrity in three years of digging holes for rich people than Marcus and Elena had learned in thirty combined years of climbing corporate ladders.

"I should call him," Elena said quietly.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "We both should."

Outside, the orange sign flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. But neither moved to leave.