Bear Market Blues

The orange slice sat on his tongue like a memory he couldn't swallow. From his hospital bed, Elias watched his son's baseball game through the window, the players distant as ghosts. His portfolio had crashed in the bear market last month, taking with it the savings meant for Maya's college tuition.

The pitcher wound up—a bull of a boy, shoulders broad with promise—and Elias remembered his own days on the mound. He'd been bullish then, too. Bullish about his marriage. Bullish about the market. Bullish about tomorrow.

Now the cancer stats were bearish, and his wife had stopped visiting three weeks ago. She'd left him an orange on his nightstand the last time—some half-hearted peace offering from the woman who'd packed her bags while he slept.

"You never knew when to fold," she'd told him, and she was right. He'd held those stocks too long. Held his pride too long. Held onto a love that had already rotted from the inside.

The baseball arced toward the plate. A strike. The crowd cheered, tinny and distant. Elias closed his eyes and let the orange taste fill his mouth—citrus sharp, verging on bitter, like the realization that some games end whether you're ready or not.

He thought about calling his broker one last time. About buying in while the market was down. That old bullish instinct flaring. But then he remembered Maya's face when she'd visited yesterday, her eyes holding that terrible adult knowledge.

Some bears, he understood now, you don't outwait. Some games, you don't win.

Elias swallowed the orange whole, peel and all.