The Luxor Pool at Midnight

The pyramid rose against the desert sky like some ancient tomb relocated to the strip, its apex beaming that ridiculous light into the darkness. Elena adjusted her hat—a wide-brimmed thing she'd bought to hide her face—and leaned against the railing, watching the pool below.

"You're not going to jump, are you?"

She turned. David stood there, two drinks in hand, his wedding ring glinting under the artificial lights.

"I'm not going to jump," she said. "I'm just thinking."

"About how much bullshit we're fed on a daily basis?" He handed her a glass. "They brought us here for 'team building' but everyone knows it's just to soften the blow before the layoffs. The corporate pyramid scheme, literalized."

Elena took the drink. "You think they know? About us."

David laughed, that cynical laugh she'd fallen for six months ago in the copy room. "They don't know anything. They're too busy chasing baseball metaphors and hitting home runs in markets that don't exist. Meanwhile, we're here, pretending to be colleagues while you wear my hickey under that scarf."

The pool below was empty, the water still and dark. It reminded her of childhood summers, her father's voice explaining the game through the static of a radio, something about how baseball was different because you could fail seven times out of ten and still be a hero. She'd never felt like a hero at anything.

"My mother called today," Elena said. "Asked if I was happy. I told her yes."

"Are you?"

"I don't know what happiness is anymore. I thought it would feel different. Less like drowning."

David's phone buzzed. He didn't look at it. "We could just leave. Tonight. Get in the car and drive."

"And go where?"

"Anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere that isn't tomorrow morning's presentation on 'synergistic solutions.'"

For a moment, she wanted to say yes. But beneath the wanting was the exhausted knowledge of all the things that tethered them—the mortgage, the careers, the spouses who might or might not suspect, the lives they'd built like careful houses of cards. The bull wasn't just what came out of their bosses' mouths. It was what they told themselves every day.

"You should go back upstairs," she said. "Your wife is probably wondering where you are."

"El—"

"Go, David."

He placed his unfinished drink on the railing and walked away. Elena watched the pool until her glass was empty, until the desert wind turned cold, until she understood that sometimes staying was harder than leaving, and sometimes there was no difference at all.