Drowning on Dry Land

Maria woke at 5:45 AM, moving through her morning routine with the hollow precision of a zombie—eyes glazed, limbs heavy, her mind still trapped in the quarterly report she'd reviewed until midnight. Her hair fell unwashed around her face, another sacrifice to the merger devouring her life since October.

In the office breakroom, David found her staring at the vending machine's fluorescent display.

"You look like hell," he said, not unkindly.

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She reached for an orange—the fruit, not juice, because she'd promised to stop taking shortcuts. The burst of citrus when she peeled it was the first real sensation she'd felt in days.

They'd worked together three years. He was married; she was not. They'd never crossed lines, but somewhere between 2 AM calls and shared coffee, something formed. He was the friend who noticed when she stopped wearing makeup, who brought soup when she had the flu.

"My wife asked if I'm happy," David said suddenly.

Maria's chest tightened. "Are you?"

"I don't know." His voice cracked. "Yesterday I realized I haven't felt like myself in so long, I don't remember who that is."

She saw it then—the same thing she felt every morning in the shower. The water washing over her skin while she stood frozen, wondering if this was all there would ever be. They were both drowning, just differently.

"We're forty-two," she said softly. "Maybe seventeen good years left before they start phasing us out."

David laughed, startled and bitter. "That's your pep talk?"

"Reality check." She met his eyes. "We keep walking around like the living dead, or admit this isn't working."

"What's the alternative?"

"I don't know." She peeled another orange segment. "But we need to figure it out before there's nothing left to save."

His phone buzzed. They both ignored it.

For a moment they stood there—colleagues, friends, two people seeing each other completely. Then it broke, as all moments do, and they returned to their desks. But later Maria would think about how strange it was that the most honest conversation she'd had in years happened over vending machine light and fruit.

She finished the orange. It was bitter and sweet and real, and for the first time in months, she actually tasted something.