Corporate Solstice

The corporate org chart hung on Marcus's wall like a modern pyramid—him at the bottom, meaninglessly supporting layers of managers who managed other managers. At 47, he'd stopped asking why the company needed three VPs of Innovation.

He found himself at 11 PM on a Tuesday, rerouting ethernet cables beneath his desk while his cat Barnaby watched with judgment. Sarah had left behind Barnaby when she moved out three months ago, claiming the cat 'belonged to the apartment.' Marcus suspected she just couldn't bear taking the creature who'd witnessed their six-year marriage dissolve into passive-aggressive silence over breakfast.

"You're staring again," Marcus told the cat. Barnaby blinked slowly, then returned to washing his paw.

The cable tangled around Marcus's wrist—another remnant of Sarah's legacy, part of the home office setup they'd assembled during those optimistic months of remote work. He couldn't bring himself to replace it. Pathetic, really.

His phone buzzed. A reminder: 6 AM swimming class. He'd signed up impulsively after the divorce, seeking something his ex-husband had always mocked as 'bourgie self-care.' Tomorrow's session focused on treading water—the instructor's metaphor for emotional survival.

Marcus freed the cable and sat back, rubbing his temples. The pyramid on the wall seemed to pulse. Barnaby abandoned his grooming to leap onto the desk, stepping deliberately across the keyboard.

"You know what?" Marcus whispered, scratching behind the cat's ears. "Fuck the pyramid."

He deleted the 6 AM reminder. Then forwarded the org chart to his personal email with a subject line: Evidence for the HR lawsuit.

Barnaby purred. For the first time in months, Marcus didn't feel like he was swimming against the current. He was just... swimming.