by Elena Zhang
The presentation was not going well. Peacocks burst out of the projector as I pointed to the second slide. Now if you look at the data here, but the analysts were already joining the peacocks in a waltz around the conference room, my promotion looking less and less likely after each iridescent twirl and dip. Tail feathers knocked over coffee cups while the analysts beckoned me to join them with outstretched arms. Someone opened the window, and one by one, each peacock and analyst flew into the sky, one thousand eyes staring at me in relentless blue-and-green, as if my heart were on display, as if the universe left me in the dust, as if I knew a child, and then I didn’t. I wept with joy, and, while profits soared, my boss wandered into the room and began to clap.
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025.
Photo by DesignerVN on Unsplash
