The Existential Pancake

“Malcolm brings experience,” his manager had said afterward, a hand on his shoulder like an avuncular anvil, “but Petra brings fresh perspectives. We’re an agile company now. We need to pivot.”

The memory made his jaw tighten. He’d nodded and congratulated her, then spent the weekend trying to drown the image of her victory smile—teeth like a row of perfect tombstones marking the death of his ambitions.

The pancake bubbled before him, its surface temporarily rising with pockets of heated air. Malcolm leaned closer, spatula poised. There was something hypnotic about watching the steady spread of tiny eruptions across the uncooked batter. They appeared randomly at first, then with increasing frequency until the entire surface trembled with potential energy. And then, inevitably, they began to pop. One by one, the bubbles released their trapped air and collapsed, leaving small craters in what had been, moments before, an expanding dome of possibility.

His hands were numb, but he felt a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized as revelation, not dissimilar to heartburn but sharper, more insistent.

The pancake. It was his life in miniature, played out in batter and heat.

There had been the promise of youth—straight out of business school, everyone telling him he had potential, that he could rise to the top. Then his thirties, when he’d actually believed it, riding the temporary updraft of a few modest successes. Regional team leader. Assistant director of operations. Each title slightly more impressive than the last, the bubbles growing larger, the rise more pronounced.

But now he was watching it all collapse. Slowly, inescapably, with the precision of natural law. The golden dome flattening into a sad, undercooked disc.

Malcolm’s fingers tightened around the spatula handle, its plastic edge digging into his palm. The pancake continued its inevitable descent, a twenty-second life cycle that somehow contained the entirety of his professional trajectory. He’d been passed over three times now. His salary had plateaued five years ago. His office, once with a window, now faced a ventilation shaft that smelled faintly of other people’s lunches.

It wasn’t just work. It was everything. His hairline had receded like an outgoing tide, revealing more forehead each year. His doctor used words like “monitoring” and “preventative” with increasing frequency. The dating app on his phone sat unused for months at a time, its notifications a series of algorithmic pity swipes.

The spatula hovered, trembling slightly. This was the moment. The flip.

Malcolm slid the spatula under the pancake. The underside, he knew from years of Sunday ritual, would be golden brown, perfectly cooked, deceptively promising—even as the top remained a landscape of collapsed dreams. With one practiced motion, he flipped it.

The pancake turned in mid-air—a brief, beautiful moment of weightlessness—before landing with a soft slap. The golden side now faced up, hiding the crater-marked surface beneath. A perfect illusion of success.

And just like that, Malcolm Trent understood what he needed to do.

He transferred the pancake to a plate he wouldn’t use, turned off the burner, and walked to his bedroom. The suit he’d laid out for Monday hung on the closet door—pressed, ready, patient as a loyal dog. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached for his phone.

“This is Malcolm,” he said when his manager’s voicemail picked up. “I won’t be in tomorrow. Stomach bug.”

He ended the call, knowing with calm certainty that he would never make another one like it. Never again explain his absence, request time off, or apologize for being three minutes late to a meeting about quarterly projections that meant nothing to anyone involved.

The suit continued to hang there, a cloth ghost of expectations. Malcolm turned away from it, back toward the kitchen where a half-finished pancake batter waited. There was enough for at least six more pancakes. Six more life cycles to observe, to understand, to transcend.

For the first time in years, Malcolm Trent felt something very close to hunger.