The Goldfish at the Apex

Marcus stared at the goldfish bowl on his desk, watching the orange fish—named Napoleon, ironically enough—dart between plastic algae and a ceramic replica of the Eiffel Tower. He felt like a zombie these past months, his body moving through automatic motions while his mind had quietly vacated the premises somewhere around mid-February. The bottle of vitamin D supplements sat untouched on his desk, a small testament to all the self-improvement initiatives he'd abandoned when he realized some holes couldn't be patched with better habits.

The corporate org chart was a pyramid, and Marcus understood his place: somewhere in the middle layers, supporting the weight of executives above while managing the expectations of those below. Today's quarterly review had been particularly brutal—his director had spent forty-five minutes explaining why Marcus's proposal for flexible work arrangements was "not aligned with current company culture," which was corporate-speak for "we control your time, not you."

"I'm not going to bullshit you, Marcus," Sarah had said, leaning back in her ergonomic chair, "but we need people present. Presence equals commitment."

He'd nodded, swallowed the urge to ask why commitment required physical proximity in an era of digital everything, and returned to his cubicle. Now it was past seven, and the office was empty except for security walking the floor. Napoleon surfaced for food, opening and closing his mouth in silent demand.

Marcus's phone buzzed. Elena.

"Did you survive?"

"Barely."

"Wine night? My place at eight?"

He and Elena had been dancing around each other for six months—friendship with an edge of something sharper, something that made his chest tighten when she laughed at his jokes. She was the only person who made him feel like more than a corporate automaton, like someone whose thoughts and desires mattered beyond their utility to someone else's bottom line.

"I'll be there," he said. "I'll stop for that Malbec you like."

As he packed his bag, Marcus watched Napoleon complete another lap of his tiny kingdom. Tomorrow, Marcus decided. Tomorrow he'd start taking the vitamins. Tomorrow he'd update his résumé. Tonight, he'd let himself want something without calculating the risk.

He grabbed his coat and turned off the light, leaving the goldfish to his silent vigil, a creature ruling nothing, waiting for someone to finally see him.