The Geometry of Regret

The corporate retreat brochure had promised clarity. Instead, Marcus found himself staring at the **pool** at 2 AM, its surface like a dark mirror, while somewhere in the desert distance, a real **pyramid** stood silhouetted against moonlight—some tourist trap they'd visited earlier that day, where he'd pretended to care about ancient engineering while his phone burned with texts from her.

He'd left his wife sleeping in their suite. She'd ordered room service—salad with **spinach**, something about eating healthier, starting fresh. The same phrase she'd used three years ago when they'd decided to try for a baby. Now she ate alone while he stood here, nursing warm whiskey from the minibar.

A **cat** wound around his ankles—some resort stray that had adopted them. His wife had named it Buster, after her childhood **baseball** coach who'd first taught her to swing. She'd told him that story their first night together, drunk and laughing in a dive bar in Chicago. Now she told stories to cats.

Marcus remembered the baseball diamond behind his childhood home, how he'd played every summer until his father stopped coming to games. The geometry of the diamond—four bases, clear paths, rules you could follow. Unlike this. Unlike the email he'd discovered on her laptop last month, or the way she'd stopped looking at him across dinner tables.

The brochure had said this retreat would help them reconnect. Instead, they'd learned new ways to avoid each other. He touched the phone in his pocket—her texts still unanswered.

The cat meowed, startling him. Marcus realized he'd been standing motionless for minutes. The pyramid remained indifferent in the distance. He threw the whiskey into the pool, watching ripples distort his reflection. Tomorrow they'd fly home. Tomorrow he'd decide.

Tonight, he just stood there while the desert cooled, waiting for something to feel clear again.