It probably seems like a rash decision. It looks that way, sure. I can only say that it takes just a few drops more to exceed the capacity of a dam.

I'd had enough.

Dylan Stern had always been an anti-bonus, compensated for by an embarrassingly large salary. But this time, I was beyond compensatory thinking. It struck me all at once with force, like a tsunami of realization, that there was no upside large enough to warrant giving another minute of my life to a company that behaved this way. That valued sales over their own people. That only did the right thing when forced into a corner. And then, would throw their people to the wolves like that.

Swelling beneath the unfamiliar anger was an undeniable feeling of fatigue. Why should I care? What purpose was I serving if my role was to redirect justified outrage? The company deserved to face the heat.

The idea that I could simply walk away came to me over dinner. By bedtime, it had crystallized into a shiny gem that I couldn't stop polishing.

I had never liked this job. It was sapping my energy, distracting me from everything important. It was morally questionable at best.

I could resign.

I mentioned the possibility to Vic, who seemed theoretically supportive.

"Sure, you'd find something else," he murmured from his side of the bed, Sunday night. "You're kind of a big deal."

I couldn't see if he was smirking, but I imagined he actually meant it. I lay in the dark, looking up at the fan, wondering if his opinion could be trusted. Vic installs air vents for a living. It's a lucrative living, he owns his own business, but it is solidly not in the same world that I navigate on a day-to-day basis. He's probably 'kind of a big deal' in air conditioning, but I'm not sure I would feel confident enough to issue such an overarching statement of support if he suggested packing it in without a backup plan.

Still, I've been headhunted every few months in the last 15 years. I've been interviewed by the media about the handling of crisis situations. I'm good at what I do. Finding something else would be a breeze.

The word hubris floated dust-mote-like through my semi-consciousness before I fell asleep, but I was already composing my resignation letter in my mind.

***

I arrive in the office early Monday morning. It's barely 7:30, and the lights are still off. I leave them off and make a determined march toward my desk. Like most companies, NorthLodge has blindly embraced the open concept despite its numerous shortcomings - total lack of privacy in which to have sensitive discussions with team members, ear-shattering volumes of chatter around coffee time, and the unexpected rise of a new status symbol: wall space.

As a VP, I have one of those coveted walls near my desk. I use it to create vast, important-looking post-it maps. This is an unwritten requirement of the modern workplace. The more post-its you have up, the more you are DOING. Each week, I spend at least 2 hours scribbling things on post-its and shuffling old post-its around so people can see how busy I am.

Leaning against my wall (and my post-it rows) is a beleaguered-looking Sandra.

"Oh, hello, " I say carefully. "Early for you?" Like me, Sandra has kids. She does the morning school drop-off, so we have a standing agreement that she can be late. In return, I hope that she doesn't judge me when I leave a few minutes early. It's the working mother's accord.

She looks me in the eye, takes a breath and says, "I've decided to quit. Did you see his... I can't work for that guy."

I let my breath out in an even fffff while I consider my response. The right thing, the managerial thing, here would be to calm her down. Support her concerns, pledge to work through them, negotiate a reason for her to reconsider.

Unfortunately for Sandra (and for NorthLodge), I don't feel up to playing that role this morning.

"I can understand why you feel that way. I do too."

She nods at me slowly, then shifts her weight off my wall and walks toward her desk. Post-its flutter to the ground beside me.

***

"Listen, you're not the first person who's complained about Dylan's style. It's abrupt, we know. He's American. He's from New York. That's just how they do business there," the HR woman in front of me is saying, fingers folded and a look of condolence on her face. "Not that I'm normalizing it," she's quick to add.

"I realize he's American. I'm just not at all sure why that makes it okay. My six-year-old won't stop saying assclown because of Dylan's inability to speak to people professionally. Anyway, I'm not here to file a complaint. I'm here to give you my notice -- I don't want to discuss it with him. You'll see I've been generous and given four weeks. I understand that at this level, it will take some time to find..."

"No, we don't want it to go like this," she interrupts me, refusing to take the folded letter I'm holding out toward her.

"We don't...? Well, no. I know it's a pain, but listen, this is about me. I really feel..."

"Could we discuss what it might take to..."

"No, look. I really feel that it's time for me to move on. I mean, I don't have anything lined up," I can see her eyebrow lift considering this, so I add quickly, "I just... I miss my kids. All these working weekends. Nights. You know how it is. I want to spend some time with them. So you can tell everyone that's what I'm doing. Just stepping back in my career, etcetera."

She shrugs at me and half swivels toward her window (HR still gets to have offices).

"I should remind you that you signed a contract agreeing that you cannot leave to join a competitive organization which we define as any company that sells anything, either physical or internet-based. That's going to restrict your next-job options, Alice. Why don't you go home and think about that? We'll be in touch with next steps."

"Now?" I ask, confused. It's only 2 pm, and I've booked a 3 pm with my team to walk them through continuing #Justice situation.

"Now would be best," she says mildly. "Oh, and Alice, please don't speak with anyone on your way out. Between us, you should probably grab anything that's important to you."

"Wait, are you accepting my notice or firing me?"

"No, no, nothing like that," she says vaguely.

"Nothing like which?"

She raises her hand to smooth her perfect ballerina bun and sighs, "I don't know, Alice. But I have a feeling that when Dylan finds out you're resigning, he'll go ape shit and smash up your desk, don't you? So, either way, you don't want to be around for that."

I nod. Exactly what I was thinking.

***

Monday, 2:35 pm. I'm sitting in the Hilton's lobby bar vacillating between an exuberant sense of freedom and a sickening terror.

I text Vic: So, hi. I did it. Or maybe I didn't. Not actually sure where we landed. They asked me to stay, then asked me to leave. V. confusing. We should get drunk tonight. Hic. Already halfway there (hearts) (kidding) (for now)

I take a sip of the large Pinot Grigio that the bartender set before me with a look of pity. It's clear he thinks I've been fired — the five bags of stuff piled on the barstool beside me, including four pairs of heels, three picture frames, and a half-dead African violet, would support that impression.

I concentrate, trying to eek a moment of clarity through the clouds of confusion. Did I quit, or did they fire me? Basically, I was just walked out. Granted, I resigned, and nobody muscled me out of the building. But it feels exactly how I imagine that might feel.

I feel... displaced. And slightly sick.

I text Sandra next: You'll have to run the 3 pm. I resigned and they asked me to leave. Not sure when I'll be back. Or if.

Another sip. I look around at my midday bar compatriots, lonely day drinkers, for the most part. One older couple, tourists, drinking lattes and sitting in resolute silence. These are my people now, I think before I can stop myself.

My phone chirps, and I scoop it up like a lifeline. Reply from Sandra: Holy shit, they just asked me if I want your job. Said no, of course. Solidarity! Plus, not crazy. Where are you? I'm coming over.

***

Sandra is slopping wine into our already topped-up glasses and holding her phone to her ear with her shoulder. She's explaining to her husband why she won't be able to pick the kids up from daycare or be there to make dinner.

"Because Alice needs me!" she slurs with slightly too much passion, gesturing at me with the wine bottle. "Sorry, Matty. This is really ... of maximum importance. ... Okay ... yes, okay. I'll uber. Love you too bye. Jesus, fuck." She rolls her eyes, and I'm not sure Matt didn't catch that last bit as she's having trouble hitting the hang-up button. "I've got one guy calling me an incompetent, what was it, assclown and another who can't figure out how to pull a goddamn stir fry together on his own. Who's incompetent, I ask you?"

I shake my head glumly. As much as I appreciate Sandra's chumminess, I'm starting to think I'd rather be at home.

"Are you still thinking about quitting?" I ask her.

"Tomorrow for sure. You watch me. Well, no, you won't be there, obviously. I'll live tweet it for you. But definitely. Tomorrow. They can't treat people like this."

The post-work crowds are filtering in. We demolish one more bottle between us, and then each turn our attention to the intricacies of summoning cabs. I wonder if I had better start using public transit now that I'm not sure I have another paycheque coming... but my five bags of stuff save me from this humbling thought.