Erosion at the Apex

The corporate pyramid rose outside my office window, thirty floors of glass reflecting a sky the color of old television static. I'd spent fifteen years climbing its sides, a spy in my own life, stealing moments for myself between board meetings and performance reviews.

"You look like a zombie," Elena said, leaning against my doorframe. She was twenty-six, with eyes that held none of my exhaustion. "Your father's funeral was three months ago, David."

Baseball had been the only language my father and I shared. He taught me to keep my eye on the ball, to swing for the fences even when the odds were terrible. I'd applied those lessons to everything except happiness. Now he was gone, and I was a vice president who couldn't remember the last time I'd felt anything real.

"I'm fine," I said, the lie automatic as breathing.

Elena stepped closer, her perfume cutting through the stale office air. "Your wife called. She knows about us."

The sphinx had finally asked her riddle. For months, I'd convinced myself I could have both—the stability of my marriage, the thrill of something new, the respectability of my position. But sphinxes don't let you pass without answering, and the truth was, I had no answer that didn't destroy something.

"What did you tell her?" I asked, though it didn't matter.

"The truth." Elena's voice was soft, devastating. "That you're not a bad man, David. You're just asleep."

I looked out at the pyramid again—all those ambitious little climbers, each one certain they'd be the one to reach the top without losing their soul. My father had swung and missed plenty. At least he'd stepped up to the plate.

I took off my wedding ring and set it on the desk. "You're right," I said. "I've been dead for years."

She didn't smile. She didn't have to. The zombie was finally waking up, and the hunger—the real hunger—was just beginning.