She put down the marker.
“That question has saved me from myself more than once.”
A student asked:
“Did it come from the plaza?”
She smiled.
“Eventually.”
They applauded.
She allowed it this time.
Age made some prohibitions inefficient.
The former bully died before her.
Cancer.
Early eighties.
They had known each other almost sixty years by then.
An impossible sentence.
When the woman entered hospice, she asked the owner to visit.
The owner used a cane.
Walked slowly.
The former bully looked tiny in the bed.
Nothing remained of the arrogant young woman in turquoise except the eyes.
Still alert.
Still occasionally mischievous.
“You look awful,” the owner said.
The woman laughed weakly.
“You stole that from your maintenance friend.”
“He had good material.”
They sat.
The dying woman looked toward the window.
“I’ve been thinking about the cup.”
The owner groaned.
“Of course you have.”
“Do you remember what flavor?”
“What?”
“The drink.”
“No.”
“I think cranberry.”
“It was probably some expensive juice marketed as wellness.”
The woman smiled.
“I was so stupid.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“For agreeing?”
“For never pretending otherwise.”
Silence.
The woman continued.
“I spent years wanting a moment when you’d tell me I became good.”
The owner’s face softened.
“Did you?”
The woman laughed.
“Still terrible.”
“Then no certificate.”
They smiled.
The former bully became serious.
“Do you think I changed?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
The dying woman’s eyes filled.
“How do you know?”
“Because eventually you did decent things when nobody connected them to me.”
The woman closed her eyes.
That answer mattered.
The owner took her hand.
The woman whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She opened her eyes.
“For the first day.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
“Then why repeat it?”
“Because I’m dying.”
“Efficient excuse.”
They both laughed weakly.
Then the woman said:
“I’m glad you didn’t ruin my life.”
The owner looked at her.
“You almost did that yourself.”
“True.”
“You did the work.”
“Some.”
Silence.
The dying woman squeezed her hand.
“If there’s another life, I promise not to throw drinks.”
“Start with not kicking buckets.”
“One thing at a time.”
She died two days later.
The owner attended the funeral.
At the reception, the woman’s adult niece approached.
“She kept a photograph of the two of you.”
The owner frowned.
“What photograph?”
The niece showed her.
Years after the original incident.
The two women at a property conference.
Both older.
Standing beside a ridiculous display about workplace respect.