The Office Pool

Margaret stood at the edge of the rooftop pool, clutching her stolen hat—the ridiculous fedora Jenkins wore every day to appear eccentric. Two martinis deep, she watched the city lights blur below.

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

She turned. David. Her office rival, her unlikely friend after the merger destroyed their respective teams. His tie was undone, shirt untucked—uncharacteristically disheveled.

"Just considering it," she said, holding up Jenkins's hat. "Found it in his office after he fired me. Thought I'd give it a proper send-off."

David laughed, settling beside her on the concrete. Their legs brushed. Neither moved away. "We all predicted the layoff pool. I had you for Wednesday. You held out until Friday. Respect."

The cat Jenkins kept in the office—technically against policy—slunk between them, tail twitching. Margaret scratched behind its ears, something she'd secretly done for months while Jenkins droned on about synergy.

"Did you know?" she asked quietly. "About the pool."

"I organized it."

She should feel betrayed. Instead, she felt relieved. David never pretended to be noble. Their friendship was built on traded secrets during smoke breaks, on surviving corporate slaughter together, on recognizing each other as the only honest things in a building of lies.

"Why are you here, David?"

"Because you have my resignation letter in your purse."

She blinked. Then remembered. After the firing, drunk and furious, she'd stolen from his desk too.

"I was going to deliver it Monday," he continued. "Until you got sacked first. Now I'm thinking... we don't need their permission to leave."

He pulled two envelopes from his pocket—resignations already prepared. Hers. His.

"How long have you—"

"Since Tuesday. When they started the betting pool."

Margaret looked at the cat, now curled in David's lap. At the hat in her hands. At the man who'd weaponized her firing against our mutual employer but somehow made it an act of solidarity.

"I should return Jenkins's hat first," she said.

"Let it drown," David said, and tossed it into the pool. They watched it float, a small absurdity in water reflecting skyscrapers and stars.

Then Margaret took his hand. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

The city waited. The cat purred. And for the first time in years, Margaret didn't think about Monday.