The Weight of Pyramids

The orange sat on Miranda's desk, slowly decomposing. A week ago, it had been bright and taut, a gift from Marcus during their brief, ill-fated office romance. Now its skin dimpled and softened, a small rotting monument to poor judgment.

"You still bearing that fruit around?" Chloe asked, leaning against Miranda's cubicle wall. She was the only one who knew about Marcus, about how he'd transferred to the Chicago office three days after their hotel conference encounter.

"It's not about the fruit," Miranda said, though she wasn't sure what it was about anymore.

The pyramid scheme had started six months ago, innocent enough. Upper management brought in consultants who talked about "paradigm shifts" and "synergistic revenue streams." By month three, half the sales team was pushing nutritional supplements on the side. By month five, Miranda's direct supervisor—imagine this, a man named Pyramid Paul—was quietly pressuring his direct reports to join his "secondary opportunity."

"The thing about pyramids," Paul had told her, his teeth too white, his smile too practiced, "is that only the people at the very top truly see the whole view. Everyone else is just climbing, carrying stones they didn't choose."

The bear came later. Not a real bear, but the feeling of one—massive, furry, permanently hibernating in the center of Miranda's chest. She'd wake with it some mornings, heavy and warm. It would sit with her during meetings. It was particularly present during performance reviews.

"You seem distant," her manager said yesterday. "Everything okay at home?"

"Everything's fine," she'd said, while the bear shifted inside her, dissatisfied with this answer.

The orange finally collapsed today, its skin splitting, revealing dark spots. Miranda picked it up, surprised by how light it felt, how little remained of what it once was. She carried it to the restroom, flushed it down the toilet, and watched it swirl away.

Back at her desk, she opened her resignation letter. She'd written it weeks ago but never sent. The bear in her chest stirred, then seemed to shrink. Some weights, she realized, were only heavy because you refused to put them down.

She pressed send.