Charging Through the Spinach

The pyramid scheme of corporate promotion had finally revealed itself to Marcus, though he'd climbed it faithfully for seventeen years. Standing on the padel court at the country club, sweat dripping down his temples, he watched his racket strike the ball—*thwack*—against the man who might fire him by Monday.

"Your form's slipping, Harrison," David called from the other side of the glass enclosure, grinning with those too-white teeth. "Maybe all that organic spinach isn't paying off."

Marcus wiped his forehead. The wellness initiative—mandatory spinach salads in the cafeteria, yoga sessions nobody attended—was David's pet project. Another pyramid built on good intentions and enforced positivity.

"Just tired," Marcus said, though exhaustion went bone-deep. He was forty-five, divorced, and his daughter had stopped returning texts since Christmas.

Later, over drinks that David insisted on ordering ("my treat, you looked like shit out there"), Marcus felt the bull in him stir—that primal, stubborn part he'd suppressed since business school.

"You know what?" Marcus set down his whiskey. "I'm done climbing."

David laughed. "That's the fatigue talking. You're three years from partner."

"The pyramid's empty, David. There's nothing at the top."

The silence stretched. Then David sighed, his face sagging. "I know. My wife left me last month. Nobody's supposed to talk about it. Too messy."

Two men in expensive suits, both lying to themselves about everything that mattered. Marcus finished his drink.

"Padel tomorrow?" David asked quietly.

"No," Marcus said, and for the first time in years, something in his chest felt light. "I'm going to do something real."

He walked out into the night, leaving the pyramid behind, finally ready to charge.