The Pyramid of Lost Time

The bull had stopped charging years ago. Now it just watched through wire-frame glasses, its horned emblem polished on the mahogany desk. Martin's boss, a man who'd made his fortune in vitamin MLM schemes before the pyramid collapsed, still spoke in motivational catchphrases.

"You're not running away, Marty. You're running toward your potential."

Martin's palms sweated against his resume. Fifty-three years old, and he was interviewing for a position he'd held two decades ago. The cat he'd adopted after Sarah left — a rescue named Pyramid, because life had a sense of humor — would be waiting at his empty apartment. Sometimes he wondered if he'd named the animal ironically, or if he'd simply accepted that his entire existence was built on unstable foundations.

"Your reference mentioned your experience with the merger," the bull said, leaning back. "That was what, five years ago?"

"Seven." Martin's voice cracked like dry leaves. "The corporate restructuring. Pyramid schemes, technically. Different companies, same geometry."

Outside, palm fronds swayed in the California heat. He remembered lying beneath similar trees with Sarah, twenty years ago, their lives sprawling before them like unmapped territory. Now his territory was shrinking — apartment, cubicle, inevitable decline.

The bull's phone buzzed. His wife. Again. Martin had heard him on calls: Yes, honey. No, honey. The same negotiations that had ended his own marriage, just with different currency.

"Look," the bull said, softer now. "My daughter loves cats. Rescue ones. Says they're grateful."

"They are."

"You miss her?"

"The cat?"

"Your wife."

Martin considered lying. But the truth sat between them like an uninvited guest. "Every day. Some days it's relief. Some days it's like waking up without your left arm."

The bull nodded, almost imperceptibly. "I promoted a kid last week. Smart. Ambitious. He reminded me of me, thirty years ago. Before I understood that climbing the pyramid means stepping on people who become your friends."

Martin's palms had stopped sweating. "I don't need this job."

"No one does. That's why they keep us."

Outside, a cat meowed. Impossible — twenty-third floor. But Martin heard it clearly.

"Your daughter's cat?" Martin asked.

"I don't have a daughter." The bull smiled, tired and genuine. "That's just my story. The one I tell to make myself human."

Martin stood up, extended his hand. "Thank you for the interview."

"Running away again?"

"Running home. To Pyramid. He probably thinks I'm dead."

The bull laughed, actually laughed. "Give that cat an extra treat for me. Some pyramids are worth building."

Martin left without the job, but something lighter in his chest. The palm trees shimmered in the heat. He would go home, feed his cat, and perhaps call Sarah. Not to fix anything, but just to say: I remember. We existed. That was something.