The Geometry of Regret

Margaret sat by the hotel pool, sunglasses hiding eyes that had seen too much. The papaya on her plate glistened like the possibility of a different life—sweet, foreign, temporarily hers.

"You know," David said, not looking up from his phone, "if we'd bought in at the ground level of that cryptocurrency scheme, we'd be sitting pretty. Instead, you talked me out of it."

Margaret speared a piece of fruit. It burst against her tongue, tropical and brief. "David," she said quietly, "that was a pyramid scheme. It collapsed six months ago. People lost their homes."

"Semantics." He waved his hand. "The point is, you're always so cautious. That's why we're here, at this discounted resort, instead of—"

"Instead of divorce court?" The words escaped before she could stop them.

The pool's surface rippled—children screaming, a woman laughing, the relentless churn of water that forgot everything it touched. Last week, Margaret had found the messages on his laptop. The betting pool at work. How long before he left her. Three colleagues had money on "by Christmas."

"What did you say?" David finally looked up.

She met his gaze over her papaya. "I said I'm done being cautious."

For ten years, she'd built her life like a pyramid—solid foundation, supporting his weight, holding up their children, his career, his ego. The geometry made sense on paper. But pyramids were built for dead kings.

"The fruit is excellent," she said, standing up. "I'm going to pack."

"Margaret—"

"No." She walked toward their room, leaving the pool, the papaya, the whole carefully constructed pyramid of her marriage behind her. The betting pool would have to find a new winner. For the first time in a decade, Margaret wasn't playing.