Paper Bulls and Sunday Mornings

The coffee had gone cold, like most things between them lately. Sarah watched the steam rise and vanish, much like the seven-year friendship she'd once counted on. Outside, a stray cat—the one they'd both secretly fed—paced along the windowsill, its yellow eyes judging her silence.

'I'm sorry,' Marcus said, not sounding sorry at all. 'But someone has to tell you.'

The PowerPoint presentation on the table between them lay open to slide forty-two: the org chart for the merger. Her name wasn't on it.

Sarah had spent ten years building that department. She'd bled for those quarterly goals, missed her mother's last birthday for a product launch, canceled dates and dinner parties and everything else people actually live for. And now Marcus—her friend, her mentee, the person she'd vouched for when no one else would—sat across from her, explaining why she needed to step aside 'for the good of the team.'

'It's not personal,' he added. The universal lie of workplace betrayals.

The cat jumped down and disappeared into the alley. Sarah remembered finding it three years ago, mewling in the rain, how she and Marcus had taken turns feeding it, laughing about their secret office pet. They'd named it Lucky, which now seemed like cosmic irony.

She stood up. Her legs felt hollow.

'You know what's funny?' Sarah said. 'My father used to work the stockyards. He told me once that a bull can charge at someone for hours, full of rage and power, but if you stand your ground, eventually it tires itself out. It's all show.' She looked at Marcus. 'But he also told me that sometimes the bull wins. Sometimes you just get trampled.'

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The silence stretched.

'So this is it,' Sarah said. 'The talk.'

'I can help you transition,' he offered. 'References, networking—'

'Don't.' She grabbed her coat. 'Just don't.'

The walk to her car took forever. The November wind cut through her wool coat, and she realized she'd left her scarf somewhere—probably back in that conference room where they'd celebrated so many wins together. Her phone buzzed. Marcus. Then again. She turned it off.

At home, her own cat waited by the door, purring and oblivious. Sarah sank onto the couch and finally let herself cry—not for the job, but for the friendship that had been dead long before today. Some bulls, she realized, you never see coming until you're already on the ground.