Bull Market, Empty House

The cable knit sweater lay on the bedroom floor, exactly where she'd dropped it three nights ago. Marcus stared at it, the cream wool now dusted with dog hair from Buster, their golden retriever who'd taken to sleeping on her side of the bed since Elena left.

"Come on, boy," Marcus whispered, scratching behind Buster's ears. The dog whined, pressing his warm side against Marcus's leg. At least someone still needed him.

Downstairs, his phone buzzed on the kitchen table. Another email from his broker. Another margin call. Marcus ignored it, pouring whiskey into a coffee mug. The orange light of sunrise crept through the blinds, illuminating the foreclosure notice taped to the refrigerator door.

He'd been such a bull last year. Confident, aggressive, certain that the commercial real estate market would never turn. He'd poured everything into that downtown development project, convinced he was seeing opportunities others missed. Instead, he'd seen a cliff—and driven straight off it with both hands on the wheel.

Elena had tried to warn him. She'd begged him to pull back, to accept the modest profit while there was still profit to be had. But Marcus knew better. Or he'd thought he had.

The cable company had shut off their service yesterday. No more distraction, no more background noise to fill the silence of a house that had become too large for two people, then abruptly too empty for one.

Buster nudged his hand, and Marcus remembered: the dog needed to be fed. Some small thing he could still control.

He found the dog food in the pantry—Elena had bought the expensive kind, the one with real chicken and vegetables—and poured it into the bowl. Buster ate enthusiastically, tail thumping against the cabinet.

Marcus watched him and felt something crack open in his chest. For months, he'd been angry—at Elena for leaving, at the market for turning, at the world for not rewarding his brilliance. But standing there in his boxers, feeding the dog as the sun turned the kitchen orange, he understood what she'd meant when she said, "Marcus, you're not wrong. You're just alone."

The bull charged forward. The prudent man looked around. And somewhere between the two was the man who could admit he needed help.

Marcus picked up his phone, dialed his brother's number, and when it went to voicemail, left a message: "I think I need to talk. About everything."