The Weight of Waiting

Margaret stood by the pool's edge at the Hyatt Regency, nursing a lukewarm chardonnay and calculating the exact number of minutes until she could reasonably disappear to her room. The credit union conference had been four days of forced smiles and strategic laughter, and now came its pinnacle: the networking mixer.

"You're Elizabeth Drake, aren't you?" A man's voice behind her. She turned to find a tall, silver-haired executive in a navy suit that probably cost more than her car. She'd seen him on stage earlier. Some VP from somewhere important. "Your presentation on community outreach was... remarkable."

"Thank you." Margaret—she was Margaret, not Elizabeth, but she'd stopped correcting people somewhere between year three and four of being mistaken for the more senior, more accomplished director—sipped her wine. The spinach dip from the hors d'oeuvres hour earlier was probably still lodged between her molars. She should have checked in the mirror before coming down. Should have stayed in her room with room service and Netflix.

"I'm James." He extended a hand. "From San Francisco."

They talked for twenty minutes. About banking, about community reinvestment, about the strange loneliness of being fifty-three and successful in an industry that felt increasingly irrelevant. The pool lights flickered on, turning the water a fluorescent blue that made everything look both magical and slightly sickening. Margaret found herself actually laughing, not the performative laugh she'd used all week but something real, something that surprised her.

"I have a confession," James said, leaning closer. The scent of his cologne—cedar and something expensive—drifted over her. "I looked you up after your presentation. I wanted to see if you were..." He gestured vaguely, "available. For coffee, I mean. Professionally."

For a moment, just a moment, she let herself imagine what he might mean. What it would be like to be Elizabeth Drake, impressive enough that men like James sought her out intentionally. What it would be like to not be herself: Margaret from the satellite branch, who ate spinach dip with reckless abandon and whose ex-husband still sent her friend requests twice a year.

"I should go," she said instead. "Early flight."

"Of course." His disappointment was so genuine it almost made her reconsider. Almost. "Maybe next year's conference?"

"Maybe."

She walked back to her room without checking her reflection in the lobby mirrors. Without seeing if the spinach was still there. Some things were better left unknown.