Salad Days at the End of the World

Marcus stood by the office water cooler, watching the bubbles rise like tiny prayers in a plastic cathedral. His iPhone buzzed again—another Slack notification from Darren, that corporate bulldog who'd made everyone's life miserable since the merger.

"We need to pivot," Darren had announced that morning, pointing at charts Marcus knew meant nothing. The entire department was being fed a line of bullshit, and they all knew it. Still, Marcus had nodded along, spinach stuck between his teeth from lunch, feeling like a fraud.

Now, staring at his reflection in the cooler's glass, Marcus remembered his father's final words: "Don't let them break you, son." His father had worked construction forty years, his body crumbling while his spirit remained somehow intact. Marcus had traded physical labor for spreadsheets, but the breaking happened the same way—gradually, then suddenly.

The elevator dinged. Sarah from accounting stepped out, carrying another stack of files nobody would ever read. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—not romance, but recognition. Two people drowning in the same shallow water.

"You coming to happy hour?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Can't. Darren wants that report by six."

"That bull, huh?" She smiled, tired and genuine. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Marcus agreed, though they both knew tomorrow would bring the samedance, the same slow erosion of dignity.

His phone lit up again. A text from his mother: "Your sister's getting married. Save the date."

Marcus watched his hand shake as he typed "Congratulations!" with three exclamation marks. The water cooler bubbled behind him, indifferent. He thought about making a scene—standing on his desk, screaming that they were all dying by degrees, that this wasn't living. Instead, he returned to his cubicle, sat down, and opened the spreadsheet.

The spinach between his teeth had been there for hours. Nobody had told him. Maybe nobody had noticed. Maybe they were all just too tired to care.