The Geometry of Loss
Marcus stood at the edge of the infinity pool at the CancĂşn resort, nursing a cocktail that had gone warm thirty minutes ago. Below him, the **swimming** guests created azure ribbons in the water, their laughter floating up like accidental prayers.
Forty-seven years of climbing, and he'd reached the top of the wrong **pyramid**.
"You're going to drink that or just stare at it?"
She appeared beside him—older, with silver-threaded hair and eyes that had seen too many corporate mergers. Elena. His ex-wife's best friend, the one who'd told him, "She's going to leave you, Marcus. You're married to your career."
"The cable," he said, gesturing toward the flat-screen on the pool bar. "Still running that infomercial loop."
"That's not why you're here." She ordered a gin and tonic. "David's **baseball** tournament is this weekend. Your son expects you."
The mention of their son twisted something visceral in his chest. David, who'd stopped asking about his father's work trips three years ago. David, who'd learned to catch a pop fly before Marcus learned to catch his own mistakes.
"I'm meeting with the acquisition team," Marcus said, the excuse hollow even to his own ears. "The media conglomerate—"
"The **padel** courts," Elena cut in. "That's where everyone your age goes to pretend they're still relevant. Should've booked you a court instead of room service."
Her words landed like judgment day.
"You think I don't know?" Marcus finally turned to look at her. "I sold my soul for a corner office and a divorce settlement that bleed me dry. I missed his childhood. I missed—"
"You missed everything." She finished her drink. "The shuttle leaves for the airport at six. David's first game is at ten."
She walked away without another word, leaving him alone with his warm cocktail and the terrible arithmetic of regret: how many weekends equals a childhood? How many deals equals a father?
Marcus set the glass down on the stone railing. The pyramid was still wrong, but there was still time to climb down.