The Art of Feigning

Marcus stood by the window at his company's holiday party, nursing a drink that had gone warm an hour ago. The CEO was holding court near the appetizers, holding forth like a **bull** in a china shop, pontificating about synergy and market penetration while younger colleagues nodded with practiced enthusiasm. Marcus had stopped bothering to fake it years ago.

"You look like you'd rather be undergoing oral surgery," Elena said, appearing beside him with two fresh drinks. She was the only person from accounting he actually liked—sharp, cynical, and unfailingly honest about the corporate theater they were all forced to perform.

"I'd take the dentist over this," Marcus accepted the drink. "Remember when we thought this job meant something?"

"We were twenty-five and stupid." Elena clinked her glass against his. "Now we're thirty-eight and just... present."

Her hand brushed his as she pulled away, and he felt the faint tremor in her fingers. He'd known Elena for six years, watched her marriage disintegrate through lunches and after-work drinks where neither said what they really meant. She was his best **friend** in the only way that mattered anymore—the person who knew exactly how much he hated this life without him ever having to say it.

"My palm reader told me I'd make a big decision this month," she continued, studying the lines in her open **palm** like they might hold answers her spreadsheets couldn't provide. "She said I'd choose between security and happiness. Cost me a hundred and fifty bucks to learn I'm still picking security."

"You could quit," Marcus said softly. "We both could."

Elena laughed, but her eyes didn't crinkle the way they used to. "And do what? I have a mortgage, therapy bills, a cat with dietary restrictions." She fished in her purse and produced a small orange bottle. "You know what my doctor prescribed for my stress-induced everything? A **vitamin** D supplement. Because apparently the only thing wrong with my life is that I don't get enough sun."

Marcus watched her swallow it dry, like medicine for a disease they both had but couldn't name—the slow erosion of self that happened incrementally, in quarterly reviews and mandatory team-building exercises, until you woke up one morning and couldn't remember the last time you'd felt anything real.

"I'm putting in my notice," he said.

Elena froze, the pill bottle halfway back to her purse. For a moment, she looked like she might cry. Instead, she swallowed whatever she was feeling and smiled—a genuine one this time, small and frightened and proud all at once.

"About time," she said. "Now finish your drink. I'm not suffering through this alone."