Sinking City
Part 2
She gathered her notes, slipped them into her leather briefcase, and lingered a moment in the conference room. The screen still glowed a faint blue, humming like a machine that refused to sleep. For a second she thought of erasing the presentation—deleting every file—as if that act could free her from the company entirely. But she closed the laptop instead.
In the elevator down, the building exhaled around her. The floors slid past in a soft metallic rhythm—forty-five, forty-four, forty-three—each one a layer of her life she might never see again.
Outside, the air tasted of dust and exhaust. The late light had turned the city copper. Somewhere far off, thunder rolled—faint, metallic, like the echo of distant machinery. It felt as though the sky were loosening its hold. She walked toward her car with the brisk, composed stride she’d perfected over years of pretending not to feel. By the time she reached her apartment, dusk was spilling over the towers like rust.
She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat on the edge of the couch. The quiet pressed in. For the first time all day, she allowed herself to imagine Seattle: rain on glass, the smell of cedar, the anonymous calm of another country. She could almost hear her mother’s voice—gentle, forgetful—asking again where she was living now.
The intercom rang.
“Ms. Echeverria,” a young voice said. “Mr. Reyes is here to see you.”
She hesitated, hand still on the receiver. The day had been too clean to let it end in chaos. Yet she heard herself say, “Let him up.”
She met him at the door.
“Where were you?” she asked. “I looked for you at the office.”
“Sorry, boss,” he said. “Or should I say Global Strategy Director?” He handed her a bouquet of roses.
Guadalupe took them, unsure where to set them, and finally dropped them in the sink. She poured him wine out of habit.
“Did they ask about me?” he said, taking the glass.
“They didn’t.”
He forced a smile. “Doesn’t matter. They couldn’t pay me enough to live in the States.”
His voice was light, but his body was tense—shoulders drawn, eyes glassy. He smelled of brandy.
“Let’s sit,” he said.
She followed him to the couch. He sat too close.
“Yeah, fuck Seattle,” he said. “Do you even know how many homeless people there are?”
“Gabriel—”
“I’m serious. You think you’re escaping something? You’re just trading one cage for another.” He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want you to go.”
He placed his hand on her thigh. The touch was heavy, possessive.
“Maybe you’ve had enough,” she said.
He shook his head. “I just want you to know how much I’m going to miss you.” His hand tightened.
“Gabriel.”
He leaned in to kiss her. His breath reeked of alcohol and sweetness. She turned away, trying to make it gentle, but he followed, pressing closer.
“Stop,” she said.
He laughed—thin, breathless. Then stood. His knee caught the glass. It rolled into the rug without breaking. She bent to pick it up, but before she could, he brought his foot down hard. The glass exploded into glittering shards.
“Jesus,” she said.
“You think you can just play with me?” he said. “You use people and toss them out.”
“Get out, Gabriel.”
He stared at her. “You and your mother—always pretending you’re above everyone.”
Something in her body froze, then burned. She stood but he shoved her back down. The air in the room thinned.
Her phone rang from the kitchen—one long, steady tone. Gabriel turned toward it, muttering, “Work. Always work.” He staggered over, grabbed the phone, and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then he seized the half-empty bottle from the counter and hurled it at the wall. It struck a framed photo of her parents. The glass shattered.
He stopped, breathing hard, as if surprised by his own strength.
“You’re lucky I’m not a jerk,” he said, and left, slamming the door behind him.
Guadalupe sat motionless. The apartment smelled of wine and fear. She stared at the broken frame: her mother’s face beneath a spiderweb of cracks, her father’s arm frozen mid-gesture. For a second she thought the cracks were veins, and that the face behind the glass was hers.
She exhaled slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. Then she rose, locked the door, and went to the bathroom.
Under the mirror light her reflection looked older, almost foreign. She washed her face, watching the water redden as it carried fine specks of glass from her palms. She thought of calling her father, then imagined the silence.
Outside, the city murmured—sirens, traffic, faint laughter. The floor beneath her seemed to pulse, as if the building itself were breathing. For an instant she imagined the whole skyline sinking, each tower descending quietly back into the mud. She touched the counter to steady herself.
In the mirror her eyes looked calm again, professional. She dried her hands, straightened her blouse, and poured another glass of wine.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would book her flight. Seattle waited like a clean slate—or a quieter kind of mud.
From somewhere below came the distant groan of construction—metal against stone, like a slow heartbeat. She listened until it faded, as if the city were exhaling her. Then she turned off the lights.