Charging the Bull

The Wall Street bull loomed in the twilight, its bronze flanks gleaming dully as Elias collapsed onto the bench beside it. His iPhone buzzed—another Slack notification from Karen about the Q3 projections. He turned it face down without looking.

"You look like shit, El."

Elias closed his eyes. Marcus. His oldest friend, the one person who'd known him before the bonuses and the burnout. "Just finishing a run."

"Running from something or toward something?"

Elias laughed, a dry, cracked sound. "Both. Neither. Just running."

Marcus sat beside him, handing over a paper bag. "Brought you something. From that bodega on 4th." Inside: an orange. Small, imperfect, with a scar running down its side like a healed wound. "Your mom always said these were your favorite after soccer practice. Remember?"

Elias's thumb found the scar on the orange's peel. "Third grade. State finals. We lost, but you gave me your orange anyway."

"We were eight, Elias."

"We're thirty-five now, and I'm still losing."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the city's ambient hum. Behind them, the bull seemed to charge toward nothing at all, forever captured in mid-stride, its power frozen in useless motion.

"The VP position opens next month," Elias said finally. "Karen thinks I should apply."

"Do you want it?"

"Does it matter?" Elias dug his thumb into the orange peel. Citrus scent bloomed, sharp and sudden, cutting through the exhaust and ambition hanging in the air. "Susan left because I'm never present. The bonus hits my account and I can't even remember earning it. I'm just—charging forward, like this damn bull. Lots of momentum, no direction."

Marcus bumped his shoulder. "Then stop running."

"If I stop, the momentum carries me anyway."

"Not if you plant your feet." Marcus nodded toward the iPhone. "Turn it off. Come to the cabin this weekend. No signal, no projections, just the lake and way too much whiskey. Like old times."

The bull gleamed in the streetlamp's orange glow. Elias thought about missed calls, resentful emails, the hollow weight of success. He stripped another piece of peel, watching it fall to the pavement like the shedding of a skin he'd outgrown.

"I'll need to bring oranges," Elias said.

Marcus smiled. "I already bought a bag."