The Pyramid and the Pool
The corporate retreat was held at the Pharaoh's Palace, a faded Egyptian-themed resort on the edge of the Mojave. Elena stood by the pool, nursing her second gin and tonic, watching her colleagues attempt drunken synchronised swimming in the water below. The pool itself was shaped like a scarab beetle, its turquoise tiles cracked in places, leaking water onto the concrete deck where real palm trees in planters struggled against the desert wind.
Three weeks ago, Marcus had left her. Not with a dramatic scene or raised voices, but with the quiet finality of someone who'd already been gone for months. He'd packed his things while she was at work—a bear of a man, six-foot-four and soft everywhere, now reduced to a single cardboard box of memories she couldn't bring herself to open.
"You think too much," came a voice beside her. It was David from Marketing, another refugee from the open bar. He held his glass up to the light, studying the condensation. "HR's presentation on 'synergy' and 'pyramid schemes of success' is enough to drive anyone to existential dread."
Elena smiled despite herself. In the center of the resort's courtyard, a three-story faux-pyramid housed the conference rooms. Inside, executives were probably still discussing Q3 deliverables, unaware that outside, under the desert stars, their employees were slowly coming apart at the seams.
"My ex kept a goldfish," she said, the words slipping out unbidden. "Bubbles. Lived for seven years. Longer than we did."
David studied her with unexpected tenderness. "The thing about fish," he said, "is they only remember for seven seconds. Maybe that's the trick."
He reached out, his palm warm against her cold hand, and she didn't pull away. Behind them, someone cannonballed into the pool. The water displaced in a perfect arc, droplets catching the light like scattered diamonds, like all the moments that could have mattered but didn't.
"Maybe," Elena said, and for the first time in weeks, she actually believed something could begin again.