The Hierarchies of Small Things

The corporate pyramid rose forty floors above Chicago, each level a diminishing circle of power until you reached the penthouse where decisions were made about lives that would never intersect with the decision-makers. Sarah had made it to the thirtieth floor before realizing the view was exactly the same—just more expensive.

"You've got to be more of a bull in these meetings," Marcus had told her during their brief, ill-advised affair three months ago. He'd since been promoted to thirty-five, their after-hours encounters replaced by forwarded emails about "synergy" and "lean methodologies." Now he stood at the office goldfish tank, tapping the glass, watching the orange scales flash in synchronized nothingness.

"They don't remember anything," Sarah said, joining him. "Every loop around the bowl is a fresh discovery."

"Must be nice." Marcus checked his watch. "I've got a pitch in ten. The new restructuring plan."

"Another pyramid scheme?" The words slipped out, sharper than she'd intended.

He smiled, that corporate blend of condescension and practiced warmth. "It's not a scheme if everyone buys in voluntarily."

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Sarah thought about her apartment, her student loans, the way she'd stopped writing poetry somewhere around year three of climbing. She thought about Marcus's hand on her lower back in a dark conference room, the way he'd whispered that they were different from the others.

"You know," she said, "research shows they recognize faces. The fish. They probably remember us better than we remember ourselves."

Marcus's phone buzzed. He didn't look at her. "I'll send you the deck for review."

Sarah watched him walk away, another circuit around the bowl. The goldfish continued their endless laps, beautiful and convinced they were getting somewhere.