Pyramids of the Heart

The Luxor's glass pyramid caught the dying orange light of sunset as Elena stood by the pool, nursing her second gin and tonic. Below, the water's surface rippled—blue, artificial, inviting.

"You still order your drinks like a baseball pitcher aims," a voice said behind her. "Precision first, emotion later."

She didn't turn. Mark's voice hadn't changed. Still that warm, slightly rough quality that had once made her cancel flights and ignore her mother's warnings. Still the man who'd left his dog, Buster, with her because he couldn't bear to see the animal's disappointed face.

"I'm surprised you came to this conference," she said, finally turning. His hair was grayer at the temples. He wore corporate well now.

"Kate made me," he said. "She doesn't know about us."

"About the five years we spent building a life together? Or the way it ended?"

"Both." His hand brushed hers as he reached for his drink. "I still have Buster, by the way. He sleeps on your side of the bed."

Her chest tightened. They'd both climbed the corporate pyramid separately instead of together, each step another compromise, another night alone in hotel rooms like this one.

"I sold the house," she said. "Moved to a condo overlooking Lake Michigan. No stairs for Buster anyway."

"You always loved the water," Mark said quietly. "Remember that summer we drove to Gulf Shores? You swam every sunset while I sat on the beach with a beer, watching you."

"And drinking yourself into courage," she shot back. Why was this still so raw? Four years, and she still felt hollowed out by the shape of him.

"You're VP of Marketing now," he said, changing the subject. "Everyone's talking about your presentation tomorrow."

"And you're Managing Director. Kate must be proud."

"She is." His eyes searched hers. "She doesn't make me laugh, El. Not like you did."

The pool lights flickered on, casting rippled reflections across their faces. In the pyramid's glass reflection, Elena saw herself as Mark must see her—successful and utterly lonely.

"Buster," she said, her voice cracking. "How is he really?"

"Old. Arthritic." Mark's voice softened. "But he still waits by the door when you call—even though you haven't called in four years."

She closed her eyes. That was the cruelty of dogs. Their loyalty outlasted the reasons for it.

"I should go," she said, but didn't move.

"Stay," he said. "Just for one drink. As friends. We can talk about baseball. Argue about the Cubs again."

Elena looked at the pool, then at Mark, then at the absurd glass pyramid that contained them both, temporary monuments to ambition and regret. Somewhere above, an orange light burned in the sky, brief and beautiful and doomed.

"One drink," she said. "And then you tell me about Buster."

"Done," Mark said, and for a moment, the weight of four years lifted.