The Sunset Shift

Maya peeled the orange at her desk, the citrus scent sharp against the stale office air. Another 7 PM stuck in this glass tower, another spreadsheet nobody would read. She'd become what the younger employees called a zombie — not the undead kind, but the corporate variety: eyes glazed, fingers moving on autopilot, soul slowly eroding in the fluorescent hum.

"Still here?" David leaned against her cubicle wall, flipping that ridiculous fedora he'd started wearing after his divorce. Like a costume for someone trying to remember who they used to be.

"Someone has to finish the Q3 projections," Maya said, not looking up. "You should go. I heard the sunset is orange today."

"That's what they say every day." David set the hat on her desk. "Here. Trade you. I'll do the projections. You go watch the actual sunset. For real this time."

Maya stared at the hat — a flash of vintage indigo in a world of beige. She thought about her daughter, seven years old and already asking why Mommy never had time for tea parties. About three years of missed birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, evenings swallowed by this screen.

She stood up, leaving the half-eaten orange, the projections, the zombie life she'd fallen into.

"You know what," she said, "I think I will."

She took David's hat, placed it on her head, and walked out of the building without looking back at her computer. Outside, the sky burned brilliant orange, like something finally waking up. For the first time in years, Maya felt entirely, painfully alive.