The Last Orange

The fluorescent lights hummed their usual 3 AM complaint as Marcus stared at his computer screen, feeling like a zombie in his own life. Three years of mergers and acquisitions work had hollowed him out, leaving a shell of the man who'd once painted watercolors on weekends.

His boss, Chen—a bear of a man with shoulders that seemed to occupy half the office—had dumped another deal on Marcus at 6 PM. "Just this one, Marcus. You're my closer." Always closer. Always one more deal until Marcus found himself here, bleary-eyed and soul-exhausted, watching the clock tick toward dawn.

The office kitchen held only one thing of comfort: the ancient orange tree in a cracked ceramic pot by the window. Someone—maybe a secretary from the 90s—had planted it. Now its twisted branches held exactly three oranges, stubborn and bright against the gray corporate landscape.

Marcus had been saving them. A ritual. Each time he survived an impossible deadline, he'd allow himself one. The first had tasted like victory after the Peterson acquisition. The second had been bittersweet celebration after his divorce papers were finalized.

Now only one remained.

His phone buzzed. Chen. Of course. Marcus knew what was coming: another emergency, another all-nighter, another postponement of the life he kept promising he'd live. He'd become a zombie by degrees—accepting the unacceptable until the unacceptable became normal.

He stood up, joints cracking, and walked to the kitchen. The orange hung there like a small sun, its skin dimpled and perfect. He plucked it, the stem snapping with a satisfying crisp sound.

The peel released its essential oils as he tore it open—citugi and hope and childhood summers. He ate it in sections, standing by the window as the sky began to lighten, staining his fingers with juice that felt like life itself.

Then he walked back to his desk, opened his email, and typed his resignation.

For the first time in three years, Marcus felt hungry.