The Goldfish at the Pyramid's Edge

The Pyramid—Caesars' monolith of greed—rose from the desert floor like a middle finger to the heavens. Eleanor sat at the edge of the pool, her martini sweating onto the white concrete, watching the orange goldfish dart between the legs of drunken tourists.

She'd flown out for the merger announcement. Twenty years climbing that corporate pyramid, and she'd finally made it to the apex. Empty. The air was thinner up here, just like they said, but nobody mentioned how hard it would be to breathe.

"El?"

She didn't turn. She knew that voice. Richard. The fox who'd slithered into her department three years ago, all charm and ambition, who'd made her feel thirty again for exactly six weeks before she discovered he'd been sleeping his way through the C-suite to secure his own promotion.

"Heard you got the corner office," he said, sliding onto the lounge chair beside her. His hand brushed her shoulder—familiar, intimate, rehearsed.

"I did."

"Should I congratulate you or buy you a drink? You look like someone died."

Eleanor watched the goldfish surface, gulp air, sink back into the chlorinated depths. Memory after memory, gone before they could matter. That's what they said about goldfish, anyway. It was a lie, but she envied them the myth.

"Richard," she said, setting her drink down. "I'm fifty years old. I have three houses, two dogs who hate me, and a daughter who sends me cards on Mother's Day because I pay for her therapy. I finally reached the top of the pyramid, and the only thing waiting here is more of the same. More deals, more dinners, more men like you pretending to see something in me that isn't there."

He recoiled. Smart man. He knew when to cut his losses.

"I'm not the enemy, Eleanor."

"No," she said, watching the goldfish weave through the artificial lily pads. "You're just another ripple in the pool."