Goldfish in the Bull's Eye

Maya pressed her palm against the cold glass of the office aquarium, watching the goldfish dart through neon-lit water. It had been living in this ten-gallon prison for three years—longer than she'd been working under Richard, the department head everyone called The Bull behind his back.

'He's going to fire me,' she said, not turning around.

Elena leaned against the cubicle wall, arms crossed. 'Did you finish the Henderson report?'

'He wants me to falsify the numbers, El. There's a reason the projections don't match reality.' Maya finally turned, her palm still tingling from the glass. 'He called me into his office, stood way too close, and told me to 'make it work.' Said investors get spooked by anything less than twenty percent growth.'

'Economic bull,' Elena scoffed. 'What did you tell him?'

'Told him I needed to think about it. That was yesterday.' Maya gestured toward the fish. 'I keep imagining this goldfish growing until it's too big for its bowl, and The Bull having to decide whether to buy a bigger tank or—'

'Flush it.' Elena's voice dropped. 'You know what he did to Sarah last quarter.'

'My rent went up again,' Maya said quietly. 'My mother's surgery bills are still coming in.' She pressed her palm flat against her desk, as if grounding herself. 'What would you do?'

The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere down the hall, Richard's laugh boomed—The Bull holding court, unaware that two women in cubicle 4B were discussing the architecture of their own spinelessness.

'I'd start sending resumes,' Elena said finally. 'But I wouldn't blame you if you—I mean, we're all just fish in someone's bowl, aren't we?'

Maya looked back at the aquarium. The goldfish had settled near the bottom, its mouth opening and closing in a silent rhythm.

'He called me 'kid' yesterday,' she said. 'Said, 'Don't worry your pretty head about the math, just make the numbers tell a story.''

Elena's expression hardened. 'That's it. I'm helping you update your LinkedIn tonight.'

Maya nodded, but in her mind she was already calculating: exactly how many zeros it would take to justify staying in this bowl, and whether her soul could fit on a spreadsheet beside the adjusted projections.

The goldfish turned suddenly, flashing silver in the artificial light, and for a moment it seemed to look directly at her through the glass. Or maybe that was just projection too. Everything was projection these days.