The Hat That Hid Us

She wore the same gray hat every day to work, pulled low enough to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. Three years of mergers and acquisitions had hollowed her out, left her moving through corporate hallways like a sleepwalker. She called it being professional. I called it becoming a zombie—someone so adept at performing enthusiasm that they'd forgotten what it felt like to actually feel anything.

We met at the fountain in our office park during what she called her 'water break'—though she never actually drank from the plastic bottle she carried. Just gripped it like a lifeline while she vented about the latest reorg, her friend from college who'd sold out for a VP title, the way her apartment had become a place she only slept between flights.

'I don't recognize myself in mirrors anymore,' she said one Tuesday, pushing stray hair from her face. Her hands shook slightly. 'Not the hair, not the clothes, not the person I've become.'

I wanted to tell her that I'd stopped recognizing myself two divorces and one layoff ago. That the reason we kept meeting at this fountain, week after week, was because neither of us could bear going home to empty apartments. That we were both zombies, really, just better at hiding it than most.

Instead I said, 'The hat suits you.'

She laughed—really laughed, for the first time in months. It was a small, cracking sound, like something waking up underground.

'David,' she said, 'you're the only real friend I have left.' She took off the hat. Her hair was flat against her head, messy and human. 'You want to get out of here? Just walk away?'

The fountain sprayed behind us, rhythm and chaos and something continuous. I looked at my watch. I had a meeting in twenty minutes. She had a flight to catch at six.

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes, absolutely.'

We left our badges on the bench. Two corporate zombies, finally coming alive to find out what happened when you stopped performing and started living.