The Orange at Dusk

The office was empty when Sara found it — a sphinx moth clinging to the window, drawn by the last orange light of day. She watched its proboscis extend, searching for nectar that wasn't there.

She should have left hours ago. Instead, she was still here, five years into a career that felt like someone else's life. The quarterly reports were finished. The analytics were compiled. The bull was satisfied.

That's what they called him — 'the bull' — behind his back and sometimes to his face. Marcus Thornton, who charged through problems with force and certainty, who never met an ethical gray area he couldn't paint black and white. He was good at his job. He was also why Sara stayed late, rechecking work she'd already verified three times.

Her phone buzzed. Elena.

'Still at work?'

'Just leaving.'

'You said that two hours ago. Come home. I made that orange chicken you like.'

Sara's throat tightened. She was thirty-five, and she was tired. The kind of tired that sleep didn't fix.

The sphinx moth had given up on the window. It rested now, wings furled, waiting for darkness.

She remembered her first week at the firm, bright and eager, believing she could change things from within. Instead, the job had changed her. She'd learned to soften language, to reframe, to overlook. She'd learned that 'optimizing user engagement' meant designing addiction. That 'streamlining operations' meant eliminating departments. That 'managing expectations' meant lying.

The bull called it 'being professional.'

The moth stirred.

Sara stood up, gathered her things. Tomorrow was another day. But maybe it didn't have to be this day. Not anymore.

She let herself out, leaving the sphinx moth to its waiting, walked into the orange dusk, and called Elena back.

'I'm coming home,' she said. 'I think I need to talk about something.'

The moth would find its way or it wouldn't. But tonight, finally, so would she.