Summer Intern Asked If I Ever Regret Getting Married

The intern program was my idea. Twelve weeks of smart kids learning analytics. HR warned me about optics. I said professionalism would be armor.

His name was Eli. Twenty-three. Questions too direct for someone who still used a paper notebook.

On week six he stayed late "for the dataset." I stayed because the building was quiet and my marriage was loud in the wrong ways—silence at dinner, noise in my head.

He asked at 8:47 p.m., standing by my glass wall overlooking the city:

"Do you ever regret getting married?"

"You can't ask that."

"I know. Do you?"

I should have sent him home. I should have called HR. I looked at his hands on the legal pad and said, "Only on Tuesdays."

He smiled like I'd given him a key.

We did not touch that night. We talked until midnight about ambition and cages. He walked me to my car. Respectful distance. Worse than touching.

The touch came on week eight. Presentation went well. Champagne in my office—one glass each, door open per policy, then door closed because policies don't account for hunger.

"Tell me to leave," he said.

"I can't."

He didn't move until I did.

Afterward he called me by my first name. I corrected him: "At work, I'm Ms. Calloway."

"And after work?"

"There is no after work."

There was. Hotels on the west side. Cash. Separate elevators. The affair was a syllabus of risk.

My husband noticed I was "sharper." Happier. Irony is a cruel therapist.

Eli's internship ended. He left for grad school. A postcard came: "Tuesdays still?"

I burned it.

Sometimes I hire interns and sit very straight in meetings.

Sometimes I wonder if regret is just desire with better vocabulary.

HR still warns me about optics.

They have no idea how right they are.