Pyramids in Paradise

Maya balanced her papaya on the edge of the infinity **pool**, the sunset painting streaks of gold across the **water**. The corporate retreat had been her husband David's idea—something about reconnecting before the baby came. Now he was three martinis deep, holding court by the tiki bar with the regional vice presidents, explaining how their new sales strategy operated like a **pyramid**—small initial investment, exponential returns.

"You look like someone who's seen the dead," said a woman beside her. Sofia, the new marketing director from Chicago. "Or someone who's become one."

Maya laughed, startled. "That obvious? I feel like a **zombie** most days. Ever since the merger, I've been showing up, going through the motions, waiting for someone to notice I've been hollowed out."

"The corporate zombie special," Sofia said, slicing into her own papaya. "I spent three years at my last job before I realized my soul had left the building. My husband never noticed—too busy climbing his own pyramid schemes."

David gestured to Maya from across the pool, that expectant look in his eyes. Come perform. Come be the supportive wife who smiles at all the right moments.

"What if we just kept walking?" Sofia said quietly, watching him too. "Past the pool, past the resort. What if the zombies just chose not to show up tomorrow?"

Maya thought of the baby, of the mortgage, of the carefully constructed life that felt more like a cage every day. The **papaya** tasted impossibly sweet against her tongue, sharp and alive.

"David would never understand," she said. "He thinks happiness is something you acquire."

"Then maybe," Sofia said, "it's time to acquire something else. Something real."

David was waving now, impatient. Maya dipped her feet into the water, feeling the warmth seep into her bones. For the first time in years, she didn't move toward him.