Office Retreat - Part 2

 

It was a strange feeling, being out among my colleagues as a woman – as Jessica.

I’d always been a little invisible at work—the intern, the youngest and least tenured, the one who forgot people’s names and stood awkwardly on the rim of every group conversation. Now, people stopped and stared. They smiled at me. They waved and called out, “Good morning Jessica!” as if it was the most normal thing. In her skin, her suit, her power ponytail, I moved through the world with a gravity I’d never felt before.

I felt fucking amazing. I felt so amazing, in fact, that just walking down the winding pine path toward the lake, I couldn’t help but savor each micro-moment of sensation—dampness of the boards under my feet, the slap of the breeze on my bare stomach, the utter and total freedom of moving through a world that noticed me, made room for me, even envied me. When the time came to swim, I didn’t hesitate, didn’t shrink. I owned it, every inch.

The dock was already lined with half the team, most of whom were hungover, pink, and subdued, plinking stones into the lake or bickering over who’d made it further in Wordle that morning.

I’d expected to feel embarrassed. Instead there was a strange exhilaration in the way the air kissed my shoulders, the way my legs felt long and strong and new as I strode the boards. I slipped off my flip-flops and joined the others at the water’s edge.

For a surreal minute, I just floated, letting the water buoy me, rolling onto my back and staring up at the blue, blue sky. The body felt foreign, but the feeling—this fierce delight—was all my own. I tried a few strokes, laughing at how much easier swimming was with longer limbs, more muscle, less drag. I felt like I could swim forever.

Eventually, I paddled back to the ladder and hauled myself up. I shook out my hair and wrung the water from it, letting droplets sparkle down my arms and chest. I grabbed my towel and wrapped up tight, savoring both the warmth and the way the fabric clung to every new, exquisite line of my body.

It was only when I caught my reflection in the glassy surface of the lake—a stranger’s face, wet and smiling and completely alive—that I realized how good it felt not just to wear Jessica’s skin, but to fully occupy her life.

I looked good. I looked like someone people tried to imitate, but never quite matched. Even the way the bikini fought to contain my chest was a kind of flex.

The rest of the morning blurred by in a haze of sun, water, and laughter. My colleagues treated me differently as Jessica: more respect, more challenge, but also a weirdly collegial sense of kinship. I let myself slip into the role, answering questions, giving advice.

I found myself back in Jessica’s room during a break in activities. I stretched out on the unmade bed, still faintly damp from the lake, and let the sun stripe my bare thighs through the open window’s slats.

I rolled onto my stomach, face burrowed into Jessica’s pillow, and let the sense of her—all the things I’d once envied—settle into me.

I closed my eyes and tried to memorize the feeling: this was how Jessica must always feel, moving through the world with the assurance that came not just from beauty but from being desired, envied, expected to perform and knowing you could. 

A stray memory surfaced: Jessica, three months ago, striding into the Monday stand-up in a fitted blazer, hair pulled back tight and glossy. I’d watched her from the far side of the conference room, deeply aware of the space between us, the invisible moat that separated the anointed from the expendable.

She’d barely looked at me that day. Now, here I was, wearing not only her skin but her entire historical context. The meetings, the hangovers, the inside jokes she’d accumulated like merit badges. All of it.