The Last Performance Review

The spinach between my teeth felt like the most important problem in the world, which was ridiculous, considering I'd just been told my position was being eliminated.

"We're restructuring, Marcus. It's not about performance."

Karen's voice was carefully neutral. Her eyes kept sliding to the bookshelf behind me, where my daughter's science fair ribbon hung next to a family photo. I nodded, trying to look professional. I could feel the spinach wedged against my molar, a tiny green flag of defeat. I'd eaten a sensible lunch at my desk—spinach salad with mandarin oranges—while preparing for this very meeting. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"I understand."

I didn't understand, not really. Thirty-seven years old, two months away from paying off my student loans, finally feeling like I'd mastered this corporate dance. And now?

The goldfish on Karen's desk caught my eye. It was swimming in tight, desperate circles, its orange scales flashing in the fluorescent light. She'd won it at some company picnic three years ago. It had outlasted three reorgs, two mergers, and my entire team.

"You'll have two weeks," she said, finally meeting my gaze. "Severance is generous."

"Generous."

The word hung there. I stood up, collecting my dignity like scattered change. At the door, I turned back. The goldfish pressed its mouth against the glass, opening and closing in silent appeal.

"Karen?"

She looked up, hopeful.

"Does he ever get lonely?" I gestured to the bowl.

She blinked. "What?"

"The fish. Does he get lonely, swimming in there all day?"

Karen stared at me. Then at the fish. Then back at me.

"I don't know, Marcus. I never thought about it."

"Neither did I," I said. "Until now."

I walked out with my box of personal items. In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the polished steel doors. I picked the spinach from my teeth and examined it on my fingertip—a tiny, green testament to everything I'd tried to get right today.

Outside, the day was bright and terrible. I stood on the sidewalk and ate the orange I'd packed for tomorrow's lunch, letting the juice run down my chin, watching my colleagues work through the glass windows above. The goldfish was up there somewhere, swimming its endless circles. And somewhere, somehow, something was blooming.