I wonder what it’s like—moving through the world without having to hide what you are.Whoyou are.
I decide it’s in my best interest to get Morgan talking again. I like hearing her talk, anyway: the smooth, husky tone of her voice, the subtle command in every word.
“How didyouget into science?” I ask.
“It’s really more a question of why I didn’t leave it,” Morgan says. “My father is a pharmaceutical patent lawyer.”
“Oh.” I have only a vague notion of what patent lawyers do, and it’s comically evil. I read into her phrasing a little. “Why would you have left it?”
“Because my father is insufferable.”
“Well, we have that in common.”
“Alpha?”
“Alpha. Male alphas are the worst.”
“Female alphas can be just as insufferable,” she says witha violent flash in her eyes and a grin that shows off her canines.
Her words grip my spine, each vertebra stacking onto the next, standing at attention.
I realize my mistake immediately. Whywoulda female alpha be any less insufferable? Only gender norms, gendered socialization.
The wine must be starting to kick in, because I don’t feel my usual wave of shame.
“Sorry,alphasare the worst,” I amend.
Morgan’s grin deepens. “Better.”
It’s almost like she’s flirting with me? But no, that can’t be right. I’m sure she’s this way with everybody. Someone in her position needs to be able to make allies quickly.
If she’s trying to win me over, it’s working.
#
I forget about conversation as I taste the cod. It’s firm yet silky, the skin is caramelized, and the swirl of herb sauce on the plate and half-sphere of black rice is a perfect complement. I had no idea food could be this good. And this restaurant isn’t even one of the Michelin star ones.
I’m starting to get the wine-pairing thing. The red we started with was delicious, but would have been too strong next to the fish. This white is refreshing and makes each next bite of cod as stunning as the first.
Expensive as these entrees are, they’re small, so I have no trouble clearing my plate. I like that—leftovers always make me feel guilty because I take them home but inevitably forget about them in the fridge.
As I clear off the last grain of rice, a question dances in my head.
“What’s the hardest thing about being a CEO?” I ask.
Morgan swirls her wine, considers. I wonder if she’s really thinking about it, or if the pause is just for show.
“Collective versus individual benefit,” she finally says. “Ten thousand people depend on Artemis for their livelihoods. I don’t take that lightly. But the company is… almost like an organism. Sometimes what’s best for the organism overall requires amputating a limb.”
I infer she’s talking about layoffs. “It’s pretty devastating for that limb, though,” I counter. I’m not sure why I’m getting feisty.
Morgan shrugs. “The limb can get a job somewhere else.”
“Technically true. But a bit reductive, maybe.” The words are out before I realize who I’m talking to. The wine must be getting to me, but I’m still hardly into my second glass. I glance at the bottle of white, which only I’ve been drinking from, and see that it’s almost empty. Wait, what?
While I’m staring at the bottle, the waiter slips up and uses it to top off my glass. Which he must have been doing all night, and I’ve only just noticed.
Oh. Oh no. I’m drunk.
