After the firing.
After knowing.
Why remain close?
She stared into her coffee.
“At first because I felt guilty.”
“That is not flattering.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Because I loved you.”
The chairwoman looked away.
The friend continued.
“I know that sounds impossible.”
“No.”
“It sounds worse.”
The friend nodded.
“I know.”
The chairwoman looked back.
“You let me build trust on missing information.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me blame myself.”
“Yes.”
“You listened when I wondered whether I had done something to make management distrust me.”
The friend’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“And never said, ‘I saw the woman who accused you holding the missing watch.’”
“No.”
The chairwoman’s voice remained controlled.
“How do you live with that?”
The friend thought for a long time.
“Badly at first.”
“Then efficiently.”
The answer surprised the chairwoman.
The friend continued.
“You get used to anything if you create enough explanations.”
“I told myself you were rebuilding.”
“I told myself the truth would only reopen pain.”
“I told myself I couldn’t prove where the watch came from.”
“Some of those things were partly true.”
“That made them useful excuses.”
The chairwoman nodded slowly.
The friend looked toward her.
“I understand if we never become friends again.”
“We won’t.”
The words came before the chairwoman softened them.
She did not.
The friend absorbed them.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
The chairwoman continued.
“That doesn’t mean I hate you.”
The friend’s eyes filled.
“I don’t know what that means yet.”
“Neither do I.”
They talked for another hour.
Not about the case.
Families.
Health.
Old colleagues.
A restaurant they used to visit after red-eye flights.
At the end, they stood.
No hug.
The friend said:
“Thank you for coming.”
The chairwoman nodded.
“Take care of yourself.”
They walked opposite directions.
The chairwoman cried in the car afterward.
Not because she wanted the friendship back.
Because some endings required mourning something that could not ethically be restored.
That was still an ending.
Several years later, she boarded one of her airline’s aircraft anonymously again.
Not as a test.
She hated secret tests.
She was simply traveling.
Plain black sweater.
Loose trousers.
No assistant.
Seat 2A.
A young Black flight attendant greeted her without recognition.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“May I hang your coat?”
“Yes, thank you.”
That was all.
Another passenger accidentally sat in 2C.
A white man in an expensive suit.
His pass said 3C.
The same young attendant approached.
“Sir, may I check your boarding pass?”
He showed it.
She smiled.
“You’re one row behind.”
He looked embarrassed.
“My mistake.”