The Velvet Fedora

Elena smoothed her graying hair in the restroom mirror, the fluorescent lights unflattering but honest. At forty-seven, she'd stopped bothering with dye. The silver strands made her look distinguished—or at least that's what she told herself when another promotion passed her by, awarded instead to the thirty-year-old with the flawless smile and the MBA from a school Elena couldn't have afforded even with scholarships.

The office holiday party was in full swing when she noticed him: Marcus from Accounting, wearing a velvet fedora that belonged in a costume shop, not a corporate Christmas gala. He kept glancing her way, then quickly looking elsewhere, clutching a plastic cup of water like it was something far stronger. Every time she moved, he moved. When she drifted toward the buffet, he drifted toward the buffet.

He thinks he's being subtle, she thought darkly. He's trying to be a spy.

The word made her laugh into her punch. What secrets did Marcus think she harbored? Her Outlook calendar? The whereabouts of the good stapler? The spinach wedged between her molars that no one had bothered to mention?

She excused herself and headed to her office, curious. When she pushed open her door, her heart sank. Her desk chair had been moved. Her inbox—a carefully curated tower of procrastination—had been touched. Someone had been through her things.

Marcus appeared in the doorway, hat in hand, looking guilty as a child caught stealing cookies.

"I can explain," he said.

"You're looking for the Blackberry account files," she said coldly. "Corporate hired you to dig up dirt before the layoffs."

Marcus blinked. "What? No. I—your niece called the office. She said your birthday's coming up and she needed your hat size for that vintage cloche you've been wanting since—since your mother died? She mentioned you cried about it at the wedding?"

Elena's anger evaporated. "My niece called?"

"And I might have gone through your desk to find an old photo with measurements." He held up a crumpled picture from 2019. "I was going to text her, but then you walked in, and—" He gestured helplessly at his ridiculous hat. "This was my wife's. I thought, you know, festive."

Elena pressed her fingers to her eyes, which were suddenly burning. "I'm going to kill my sister for telling everyone that story."

"So," Marcus said, "size seven?"

She laughed, a real laugh this time. "Size seven. And Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Lose the hat. You look ridiculous."