The Fishbowl Effect

The Luxor's atrium stretched above Elena like the throat of some impossibly large beast, its pyramid-shaped glass ceiling filtering the desert sun into an artificial twilight. She sat on a velvet bench, nursing a gin and tonic she couldn't afford, watching the goldfish in the lobby pond circle each other in endless, mindless repetition. She was supposed to be at the conference keynote — something about synergies and scaling — but she'd stopped caring about the corporate pyramid scheme three drinks ago.

"You're going to burn holes in that pond," said a voice beside her.

Elena turned to find David, her boss, wearing that terrible fedora he'd bought in the gift shop as some kind of ironic affectation. His yellow lab, Barnaby, sat obediently at his feet — the dog was always allowed everywhere, while Elena couldn't even expense a room upgrade without three approvals.

"Just thinking about circular logic," she said, gesturing to the fish. "They don't know they're going nowhere."

David laughed, a sound that had always charmed her until last night, when he'd explained why her promotion was being "deferred." "That's the corporate ladder, El. We're all just swimming in circles, pretending we're getting somewhere."

He sat beside her, and Barnaby rested his head on Elena's knee. She stared at the dog's golden eyes, so earnest, so pleased to be included, and felt something crack open in her chest. Seven years she'd given to this company. Seven years of missed weddings, of dating men who bored her, of promising herself she'd leave after the next bonus, the next promotion, the next quarter.

"Your hat," she said suddenly. "It's ridiculous."

He touched the brim, surprised. "You don't like it?"

"I don't like that you wear things like that while I'm sleeping with you, and then you tell me I'm not ready for senior management."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Above them, the pyramid loomed, its apex cutting into the manufactured sky. A school of goldfish darted suddenly, startled by nothing at all.

"Elena—"

"Don't." She stood, smoothing her dress. She could feel tears rising, unwanted and humiliating. "I'm going to pack. I'll send my resignation from the airport."

"You'll regret this," David said, but he sounded uncertain now. He sounded afraid.

Elena looked at him — at his awful hat, at his expensive suit, at the dog who loved him without condition. She looked at the pyramid above them, at the tourists snapping photos of things they'd forget by next week, at the goldfish who would never know they were trapped.

"Maybe," she said. "But at least I'll be swimming somewhere new."