The Fox in the Mirror

Margaret caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror—somewhere between fox and zombie, she thought, studying the dark circles beneath eyes that still held a glint of something predatory. She adjusted her hat, the wide-brimmed one that had become her armor during three years of this corporate purgatory.

"Bullshit," she whispered, rehearsing for the 2 PM meeting where she'd have to smile while her boss, David, took credit for the Q3 projections she'd burned weekend gasoline to perfect. David, who'd once been her lover, back when they were both young enough to believe office romance wasn't a violation of natural law.

Back at her desk, she watched him stride past, wearing that same fedora he'd worn the night they ended things—the night he'd whispered, "You're too sharp for this place, Meg. It'll eat you alive."

He was right. The job had hollowed her out, left her moving through days on autopilot. The work-force zombies shuffling to the breakroom for lukewarm coffee. But the fox—that was still there. The fox remembered everything.

Her phone buzzed. David: "Can we talk? Old tavern, 7 PM?"

Margaret's thumb hovered. The fox calculated: this was either love or war. The zombie just wanted it all to be over. She chose the fox. She'd wear her lowest-cut dress and her sharpest heels. She'd show him exactly what he'd thrown away, what this place had tried to destroy.

Some things, she decided, adjusting her hat one last time, don't stay buried.