The Corporate Pyramid

Sarah sat in her corner office on the 40th floor, looking out at the city lights. At forty-seven, she'd finally reached the top of the corporate pyramid, though the view wasn't quite what she'd imagined. Her office was pristine, sterile—much like her marriage had become.

She ran her fingers through her hair, still thick and auburn despite the stress of the last decade. Tom had always loved her hair, used to bury his face in it when they were young and broke and happy. Now, when he touched her at all, his hands felt tentative, like he was afraid she might break or, worse, that she might remind him of the person he used to be.

The intercom buzzed. "Sarah? Tom's on line two."

Her stomach tightened. They'd barely spoken since Sunday's fight—the one about his mother, again, always about his mother, about how Sarah had changed, how she'd become cold, how the job had consumed her.

She stared at the phone cable, frayed at the connector from years of people tripping over it. Strange how something so small could be so vital, yet so fragile. Like marriage, she thought. Like trust.

"Sarah?" the receptionist's voice came again. "Should I tell him you've gone for the day?"

She thought of their apartment downtown, the empty refrigerator, the silence that waited for her there. She thought of the Egyptian vacation they'd planned for their anniversary—tomorrow, actually. The pyramids had been Tom's idea. Something ancient and permanent, he'd said. Something that lasts.

"No," Sarah said, her voice steady. "I'll take it."

She lifted the receiver, her fingers finding the familiar pattern of the cord's coils. Somewhere across the city, Tom was doing the same thing. The cable between them—old, imperfect, fraying at the edges—still connected them. For now, that had to be enough.