The Architecture of Regret

The cat appeared at the same time every evening—a calico with a jagged ear that sat beneath the palm tree in my courtyard, watching me like she knew something I didn't. I'd stopped feeding her weeks ago when I realized I was just another person in her rotation, another mark in her little pyramid scheme of sustenance. She moved through the neighborhood like confidence itself, and I admired her for it.

Then came the call from Marcus. We hadn't spoken since the thing with the baseball tickets—World Series, box seats, the kind of opportunity that comes once in a lifetime if you're lucky. He'd promised to hold them for me, said I had first right of refusal. Then he sold them to his brother's coworker for double what I would've paid.

"I'm in town," he said, like nothing had happened. "Coffee?"

The palm of my hand went cold against the phone. This was the thing about people who burn you: they always return when they need something, acting like the fire never happened.

I met him at the place downtown where the sunlight angled through windows in ways that made everyone look worse than they actually were. He looked tired—the expensive tired of someone who'd been chasing something that kept moving.

"I'm starting something," he said, leaning across the table. "A multilevel marketing thing. Health supplements. It's going to be huge."

I watched dust motes dance in the light between us. "A pyramid scheme."

"It's not—"

"Marcus, you sold my baseball tickets."

He had the grace to look away. "I needed the money. Janine left."

"And now you need me to what? Buy into this?"

"You're good at sales. You could build your own network underneath—"

"Underneath you."

"Beside me. We'd be partners."

The calico was waiting when I got home. She sat on my wall, tail wrapped around her paws, watching me with those unjudging eyes. I realized then that Marcus was right about one thing: everyone's selling something. The cat sold companionship. I sold my hours to a corporation that would replace me in a heartbeat. Marcus sold dreams to people who couldn't afford them.

I went inside and got a can of tuna. She ate it delicately, never taking her eyes off me, and I wondered if this was how it started—the moment you decided that being used was better than being alone, that the shape of the pyramid mattered less than finding someone to share your level with.

She returned the next evening anyway. Some creatures know exactly what they're worth, and they never apologize for it.