The Orange Peel

Maya peeled the orange at her desk, the citrus scent cutting through the recirculated air of the open-plan office. It was 3 PM on a Friday, and she was already running on fumes. The quarterly review meeting had just ended—another three hours of corporate speak where nobody said anything, and everyone pretended to care.

Her boss, Gary, had dropped the bomb: the Helios Project was being revived. It was a zombie initiative, killed three times by previous leadership, yet somehow it kept shambling back to life, eating resources and morale. Maya would have to bear the weight of leading it—again.

"You're the only one who knows the legacy code," Gary had said, his eyes already sliding to his next meeting. "And we need someone with your... endurance."

Endurance. The word hung in the air like stale smoke.

The orange's spray misted her fingers. She remembered how David used to peel them for her, starting from the top, creating one long continuous spiral of zest. He'd had hands that knew how to take things apart gently. That was three years ago—before the divorce, before she'd thrown herself into work with the desperation of someone trying to outrun their own life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: "Your father's bear collection is worth something now. Weird market."

Maya stared at the screen. Her father had spent twenty years accumulating ceramic bears—polar bears grinning with frozen optimism, black bears posed as if fishing for salmon that would never come. He'd died last year, leaving behind shelves of kitsch that her mother was finally trying to liquidate. The irony wasn't lost on her: even in death, the bears were worth more than her father's actual legacy—the unpaid debts, the disappointment in Maya's eyes, the way he'd borne the weight of his own mediocrity by collecting miniature versions of strength he'd never possessed.

The zombie project. The ceramic bears. The orange that was somehow both bitter and sweet.

She ate a section, the juice sharp against her tongue. Outside her window, the city moved through its Friday afternoon ritual—workers streaming toward elevators, toward drinks, toward someone else's bed. Maya stayed in her chair.

The market was bear. Her life was a zombie. And this orange was the only real thing she'd tasted in months.

She typed her response to Gary: "I'll do it. But I need a raise."

Then she opened a new document and began to update her résumé.