They told me at their desk

They told me at their desk,

voice so low I almost missed it,

like they were sorry,

like they were apologizing for something

I was supposed to be happy about.

A better title. More money. Across town.

They said it like it was bad news.

They said it like they were bracing for my envy

before I'd even felt it,

and of course that made it sharper—

the fact that they knew

I'd feel small when they got bigger,

that my first instinct would be

to measure the distance

between their office and mine,

between their salary and the thing I'd settle for.

I congratulated them. I meant it.

I meant it the way you mean things

when you're also meaning something else,

when you're also doing the math

on what you should be earning by now,

on the fact that they didn't ask for this

the way I've been asking—

quietly, in interviews, in emails,

in conversations with my manager

that never quite land—

and somehow they got it anyway,

just by existing,

just by being the kind of person

who gets offered things

without having to prove

they're desperate enough to deserve them.

I spent the rest of the day

not looking at their desk,

not thinking about the office

they'd get to themselves,

not calculating how many years

it will take for me to get there,

or if I'm even the kind of person

who gets to have that,

who gets to be wanted

before she asks,

who gets to say yes

instead of just nodding

when someone else's luck

walks past her desk

and apologizes.