The Last Lunch Break

Marcus stood outside the office building at 2 PM, wearing his grandfather's fedora like armor against the fluorescent-lit purgatory inside. The hat was the only thing that made him feel like a person anymore.

At forty-three, he'd become what his therapist called a "corporate zombie"—walking through each day with hollowed eyes and a soul ground down by quarterly projections and email chains that stretched into infinity. The irony wasn't lost on him. He made six figures figuring out how to make people buy things they didn't need, and he hadn't bought anything meaningful in years.

He watched a woman cross the street—sharp in a red blazer, eyes scanning everyone like a fox assessing prey for weaknesses. Sarah from Marketing. The one who'd stolen his promotion last quarter by sleeping with the VP. She'd looked right through him when she passed his desk that morning, like he was already dead.

Marcus sat on a bench and opened his Tupperware. Spinach salad again. His doctor had warned him about his blood pressure last month, said he needed to "bear down" on his health before his body forced the issue. He hated spinach. It tasted like something that had already given up.

A child's laughter cut through the city noise. A little girl in a yellow raincoat twirled in circles while her mother watched, smiling. The sight hit Marcus with unexpected force. He thought about Sarah's smug victory, his hollow apartment, the spreadsheet that would consume his afternoon.

He stood up, hat in hand, and walked toward the subway station instead of the office. His phone buzzed—probably his boss wondering where the hell he was. Marcus turned it off and kept walking.

Some zombie tales ended with brains getting eaten. His would end with him finally deciding to use his own.