The Art of Drowning

Elena stood at the edge of the hotel pool, nursing her third gin and tonic. The water's surface rippled with artificial blue, oblivious to the corporate massacre scheduled for Monday morning. She'd been called a fox by her boss earlier—Harriman, that bloated bull of a man who'd made her career possible while simultaneously hollowing it out. His compliment had landed like wet cement.

She watched an orange slice float in her glass, slowly disintegrating. The party around her was a symphony of forced laughter and networking desperation. These were her people: ambitious, exhausted, pretending this weekend retreat was anything but a rehearsal for the unemployment line.

"You look like you're plotting murder," said a voice beside her.

Marcus. The only person she remotely trusted, which meant she trusted him about as far as she could throw him. His eyes tracked the hollow of her throat.

"Just contemplating the aesthetic appeal of workplace tragedy," she said. "Harriman's selling the division. We're all decorations on a sinking ship."

Marcus swirled his drink. "I heard. That bull finally caught his own tail." He paused. "There's a way out. A startup. Poached talent, no non-compete."

She almost laughed. "And what makes you think I'm worth poaching?"

"You're the only person who's ever called Harriman on his bullshit without getting fired. That's worth something."

The pool lights flickered on, turning the water into something resembling bruised silk. Elena thought about the years she'd poured into this company, the sacrifices made and not made. Her ex-husband's voice echoed in memory: *You're married to your work, El. It's a bad lover and it won't love you back.*

She'd proven him wrong. Work loved her fine. It just didn't love her enough to save her.

"When?" she asked.

"Monday. Before the announcement."

She watched her orange slice finally surrender to the alcohol, breaking apart. "I'll need references."

"You'll have them." His hand brushed hers—accidental, calculated, she couldn't tell anymore.

The bull would lose his herd. The fox would find another coop. And she—she would either drown or swim. Elena finished her drink, feeling the burn of possibility and fear, indistinguishable after a certain age.

"Monday," she said, and somehow the word felt like a beginning rather than an ending.