The Goldfish at the Top of the Pyramid

Margot stared at the goldfish bowl on her desk—its single orange inhabitant circling the same barren loop, hour after hour, like her own career in this glass tower. She'd been eating spinach salad for lunch every day since Thomas left, as if the iron might somehow fortify her against the hollow ache of his absence.

He'd been her friend once, or so she'd believed. Until the day she discovered him—clever, sly Thomas—presenting her decade of research as his own to the board of directors. He'd smiled with something green stuck between his teeth, and she'd realized with perfect clarity: he was a fox who'd been waiting in the henhouse all along, and she'd never once noticed the sharpness of his smile.

Now she watched him from the forty-third floor, ascending the corporate pyramid she'd helped build, while she remained trapped in middle management, circling like her fish.

The irony wasn't lost on her: goldfish were said to have three-second memories, yet she remembered everything. Every coffee they'd shared. Every idea she'd trusted him with. Every lie she'd swallowed because the truth was too lonely to bear.

She dropped a pinch of fish food into the bowl. Tiny flakes drifted down like confetti at a celebration that wasn't hers. Somewhere below, Thomas was probably giving another presentation, wearing another suit, telling another story that wasn't his to tell.

Margot opened her drawer and pulled out the resignation letter she'd written six months ago and never submitted. Today, she thought. Today she would walk out of this glass pyramid and leave Thomas to his hollow kingdom. She would find work that meant something. Friends who meant something. A life that wasn't swimming in circles.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Not yet, it seemed to say. Not today.

She closed the drawer and ate another bite of spinach.