Corporate Undertow

The hat sat on his desk, a felt fedora gathering dust like his ambition. At 47, Marcus had stopped wearing it years ago, along with his belief that work meant something.

He stared at the coaxial cable snaking across the floor, connecting him to a world that demanded constant connectivity. His hair had started thinning at the temples—stress, his doctor said, but Marcus knew better. It was the slow erosion of self that came from twelve years of selling enterprise software solutions to companies that would barely use them.

"You look like shit," said Elena, leaning against his doorframe. She was 32, sharp in that way new hires were before the job hollowed them out. "You okay?"

Marcus almost laughed. He'd been having an affair with her for three months. It was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore—her skin against his in hotel rooms during conferences, the way she looked at him like he was still someone worth desiring.

"Just tired," he said.

"Bull," she said. "Something's wrong."

He considered telling her about the email from HR. The mandatory restructuring. The way his boss had called him "family" while explaining that his position was being eliminated. The irony of spending your whole life becoming indispensable only to discover you're completely expendable.

"I'm fine," Marcus said, because that's what men did. They soldiered on. They didn't burden women half their age with existential dread.

"Marcus—"

"I said I'm fine."

She left. Alone again, Marcus looked around his office. The certificates, the photos of his team at company retreats, the motivational poster about perseverance—props for a role he'd been playing so long he'd forgotten who he was beneath the costume.

He stood up, put on the hat. It still fit, barely. Then he walked out, leaving his badge on the desk, leaving Elena to discover him gone, leaving behind the zombie he'd been pretending was still alive.