The Existential Pancake

The pancake batter sizzled as it hit the pan, spreading into a perfect circle before air bubbles began to form and pop across its surface. Malcolm Trent squinted at it through the haze of his mild hangover, the residue of another Saturday night spent with a bottle of moderately priced scotch and documentaries about places he’d never visit. At forty-nine, he’d mastered the art of the perfect pancake flip but little else worth mentioning at the company retreats he’d endured for two decades.

His apartment carried the half-hearted touches of someone who’d once intended to decorate properly. A framed print—not painting—of boats in a harbor hung at a barely perceptible angle above his couch. The bookshelf contained business strategy guides with cracked spines next to pristine novels he’d bought at airport kiosks and never opened. The kitchen, at least, boasted decent cookware, though this morning it resembled an archaeological excavation of his Saturday: empty scotch glass, a plate with toast crumbs, and a coffee mug with a company logo so faded it might as well have been blank.

Malcolm’s temples throbbed when he recalled Thursday’s conference room humiliation. Petra Winters—thirty-two, prone to saying “super” before adjectives that didn’t need intensifiers—had received the promotion he’d been angling for since last spring. She’d worn a blouse with unnecessarily complicated buttons and had the audacity to look surprised.