The Hat by the Pyramid Pool

The pyramid scheme company had chosen Las Vegas for their annual leadership retreat, because where else do you celebrate fleecing the desperate than in the city built on them? Elena stood by the pool, nursing a drink she'd paid thirty dollars for, watching the corporate hierarchy manifest itself in deck chair arrangements.

The VP of Sales—a man whose hair had migrated from his head to his ears sometime during the Bush administration—was holding court. He wore a fedora, indoors, at 2 PM. Elena had read that men who wear hats indoors are compensating for something, but watching him charm a younger analyst from Compliance, she suspected his compensation package was substantial enough.

She'd had spinach in her teeth earlier. Noticed it in the restroom mirror after lunch with Bradley—Bradley with his kind eyes and two kids she'd never met, Bradley who'd gently mentioned it instead of letting her walk around like an idiot all day. Bradley who'd spent twenty minutes explaining his divorce without ever using the word 'lonely,' though it hung between them like the smell of hotel shampoo.

'You're good at this,' he'd said over salmon that was definitely frozen. 'The corporate game. I always feel like I'm drowning.'

'Maybe we all are,' she'd replied, and something in his face had cracked open—a moment of recognition so raw she'd looked away.

Now she watched the pyramid-shaped hotel through the window, its impossible geometry mocking the laws of physics and ethics alike. The water in her glass had melted to nothing but condensation and regret. Forty years old and still climbing pyramids built on other people's losses.

Her phone buzzed. Bradley: 'Coffee later? No agenda.'

Elena set the fedora-wearing VP on fire in her mind, watched him burn like a pharaoh's offering. She typed back: 'Room 312. Bring your own damn hat.'

The analyst from Compliance was laughing at something old and terrible. Elena finished her drink, tipped the waiter who didn't meet her eyes, and walked toward the elevators, toward whatever came next, toward the first authentic thing she'd done in years.