Electrolytes and Existence

Another Thursday night in the office, and Marcus was the last one breathing. His colleagues had left hours ago — Sarah to her daughter's soccer practice, David to whatever passionate marriage people still sustained in this economy — but Marcus remained, fingers dancing across his keyboard like a puppet whose strings had gone slack. A workplace zombie, fueled by caffeine and the creeping dread that he'd wasted three years building software that solved problems nobody actually had.

The rain started somewhere around 8 PM, the kind of summer storm that made the city feel small and fragile. He should have been running by now — his therapist insisted exercise would help with the existential malaise that had settled over him like London fog — but instead he was debugging code for a client who wouldn't appreciate it anyway.

His phone buzzed. Elena.

You coming? Or are you going to let your spinach smoothie go warm again?

Marcus smiled despite himself. Elena was the friend who'd dragged him to that ridiculous spin class last month, the one where he'd nearly vomited while the instructor screamed about embracing discomfort. She was also the one who'd pointed out that his entire personality had been consumed by a job that would replace him with an algorithm the moment it became cost-effective.

Lightning flickered across the skyline, illuminating the cubicle farm in stark relief. For a moment, everything looked like what it was: fluorescent purgatory for the moderately ambitious.

He stood up. His legs felt heavy, resistant, but he made them move anyway.

The elevator ride down felt like descending into a different world. Elena was waiting outside the building in her running gear, somehow vibrant even in the downpour. She didn't ask why he was late. She just fell into step beside him as they started toward the park, rain plastering their hair to their skulls.

"You know," she said between breaths as they found their rhythm, "my therapist says running is just organized trauma response."

Marcus laughed, a sharp surprised sound that seemed foreign in his throat. "That's probably the most honest thing anyone's said to me in months."

The spinach was waiting in his refrigerator, a testament to intentions that kept getting deferred. But for now, there was just the sound of their footsteps on wet pavement, the distant roll of thunder, and the strange, quiet revelation that perhaps the worst part of being a zombie wasn't the mindlessness — it was how easily you could convince yourself you deserved to stay that way.