The Orange Peel

Margaret stared at the goldfish bowl on her boss's desk, its single inhabitant swimming endless laps in water that had gone cloudy with neglect. The fish—a cheap carnival prize won by some corporate VP's kid—had become the unofficial mascot of her slow death by a thousand meetings.

"You're not listening, Marge," Michael said, tapping his pen against her quarterly report. "I need you to sell the vision."

The vision. Last month's vision had cost forty people their jobs. Margaret's husband had been among them.

Outside, it was pouring rain, the kind that turned LA into a gray misery. Her dog—a rescue with anxiety issues and an uncanny ability to sense her moods—was probably destroying the baseboards back at their apartment. David had taken to sleeping in the guest room since the layoff. He'd started drinking again, something he'd kicked three years into their marriage.

Margaret reached for the orange she'd brought for lunch, something healthy to balance the vending machine snacks that had become her sustenance. She peeled it slowly, methodically, the spray of citrus hitting her face. For a moment, the sharp scent cut through the sterile office air.

"What about the team?" she asked. "The ones who've been here fifteen, twenty years?"

Michael waved his hand dismissively. "We'll manage the optics, Marge. You know the drill."

She did know the drill. She'd managed the optics for a decade, crafting narratives about synergy and right-sizing while watching colleagues age out of relevance. The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent witness.

Margaret looked at the orange segment in her hand, bright and perfect against the gray backdrop. "I need you to sell the vision," Michael said again.

She thought about David interviewing for entry-level positions at thirty-eight. About her mother's medical bills. About the goldfish that would probably die when Michael forgot to feed it over his three-week vacation to Cabo.

"I quit," she said.

Michael blinked. "What?"

"I quit."

She placed the orange segment on his desk—bright, jarring color against the mahogany. "For the fish," she said. "In case you forget to feed it."

Later, walking home in the rain with her dog pulling at the leash, Margaret's phone buzzed. A text from David: "I got an interview. Up in Portland."

She typed back: "Pack your bags."