Sunday Night at the Bullpen

Mara sat at the edge of the hotel pool at 11 PM, her legs submerged in the chlorinated water, the silence of Sunday night pressing against her ears like cotton. Room service had delivered her salad an hour ago—wilted spinach leaves, warm dressing, the saddest meal she'd ever paid thirty-two dollars for. She'd barely touched it.

Her iPhone lay face-up on the concrete deck, the screen illuminating every few seconds with messages from Richard: Are you awake? We need to talk about tomorrow's presentation. The board meeting will make or break us.

Richard was sixty-two. He was married. He was also her boss, and three months ago, after the holiday party and too much bourbon, he'd become something else entirely. Now she was swimming in the deep end of her own terrible judgment.

The metaphor made her laugh softly, bitterly. Her grandmother used to call stubborn men 'bull-headed.' Richard was worse—he was a full-blown bull, charging through china shops of other people's lives without ever noticing the damage.

She'd spent the afternoon watching his presentations, nodding at his slides, while his hand rested too familiarly on the small of her back. The marketing team had smiled. The interns had looked away. She'd felt like she was swimming through molasses—every movement required, every breath calculated.

The phone lit up again. Another message.

Mara stood up, water dripping from her legs onto the warm concrete. She picked up the iPhone, Richard's messages glowing in the darkness, and walked to the deep end of the pool. The water was still, dark, waiting.

She tossed the phone into the center. It sank without a sound.

Back at her lounge chair, she finally ate the spinach. It tasted like iron, like resignation, like the moment you realize you'd rather drown than keep treading water someone else stirred up.

Tomorrow she'd resign. Tomorrow she'd explain nothing to no one. Tonight, she'd finish this terrible salad and sleep in the room she'd paid for with her own credit card.