The Last Honest Breath

Marcus stood in the office kitchen, staring at his trembling **palm**. At 47, he'd stopped recognizing himself somewhere around year twelve of this corporate sentence. The fluorescent lights hummed their usual indictment, and his **iPhone** buzzed with another Slack notification—probably Brenda from HR wanting to 'circle back' on some deliverable that didn't matter yesterday and wouldn't matter tomorrow.

He'd brought **spinach** and feta for lunch again, the same meal he'd eaten three times a week for eight years. His cardiotorian had said he needed to make changes. His wife had said he needed to make changes. Even his daughter, home from her first year of college, had given him that look—pity mixed with quiet disappointment—when he'd cancelled their dinner plans again for some emergency that wasn't actually an emergency.

The HDMI **cable** dangled from the conference room television like a dead snake. In twenty minutes, he was scheduled to present projections he knew were fabricated. Numbers that didn't add up, assumptions that contradicted last quarter's reality, growth targets pulled from thin air. Complete and utter **bull**shit.

"Hey Marc, you ready for the 2 PM?" Greg clapped him on the shoulder, breath smelling of artisanal coffee and desperation. Greg had young kids. Greg believed.

Marcus looked at his reflection in the darkened monitor. He could do this. He *would* do this. The mortgage wasn't going to pay itself. But something in his chest—something that had been dormant so long he'd forgotten its name—stirred.

He thought about his father's death last year. The man had worked himself into an early grave, never having taken the trip to Italy he'd talked about since Marcus was a boy. *'Someday,'* he'd always said, until someday became never.

Marcus's hand found the **spinach** container in the fridge. He placed it gently on the counter, like an offering. Then he walked to his desk, collected his things, and pressed decline on the calendar invitation.

The elevator ride down took forever. His phone buzzed six times. By the time he stepped onto the sidewalk, he was crying—ugly, messy tears that didn't ask permission. A woman with a stroller gave him a wide berth. He'd never felt more alive.

His wife answered on the second ring. "Everything okay?"

"No," Marcus said. "And I think that's the point."