The Corporate Dead

The Monday meeting dragged on, David's palm sweating against the smooth glass of his iPhone as he resisted the urge to check his escape routes. Thirty floors up in the glass pyramid that housed Stratagem Capital, he felt like one of the undead—another corporate zombie shuffling through PowerPoint presentations about synergies and paradigm shifts while his soul quietly withered.

Sarah from Accounting caught his eye across the conference table. Her lipstick was slightly smeared, and David found himself wondering if she'd rushed a goodbye kiss with someone this morning. The thought struck with unexpected force—he hadn't felt genuine curiosity about another person in years. The realization made his chest ache.

"...projecting fourth-quarter growth through our new customer pyramid scheme," the CEO was saying, or something equally meaningless. David's mind drifted to Saturday's baseball game with his brother, the first time they'd spoken in six months. They'd stood in the infield dirt, gloves slapping against palms, not talking about anything real, just catching and throwing. But it was something. It was almost connection.

His phone vibrated—Sarah. A message under the table: "Your eye twitch is back. You okay?" David stared at the screen, this small rectangle of light that contained his entire life. His wife's last text before she left sat unread in another folder. He'd saved it like a shrine to something that had died between them.

"David? Your thoughts on the implementation timeline?"

He looked up. All those faces turned toward him, waiting. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Then Sarah raised her eyebrows slightly, almost imperceptibly, and he found himself speaking: "I think we need to be realistic about burnout rates. The current model isn't sustainable."

The room went quiet. The CEO nodded slowly. "Good point. Let's table that for next week."

Afterward, in the elevator, Sarah leaned against the wall. "That was ballsy."

David laughed, and the sound surprised them both. "Something has to change."

"Baseball this weekend?" she asked. "My brother has extra tickets."

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby, bright and unforgiving. "Yes," David said, and for the first time in months, he meant it.