Dead Man Floating

The bull market had been charging for three years, and Marcus had stopped feeling anything around month two. He checked his portfolio app automatically, like breathing, but the numbers meant nothing anymore. Just green arrows pointing up, up, up, while he felt nothing but down.

The hotel pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why he'd come here instead of sleeping. The conference had ended hours ago, but the whiskey in the minibar had been too tempting, and now the chlorine smell called to him. He kept his suit on—impossible to remove with these tremors in his hands—and just slid into the water fully clothed.

The shock of cold was the first real thing he'd felt in months.

"You know, they charge extra for laundry on that."

Marcus flailed, thrashing toward the shallow end. A woman sat at the edge, legs in the water, cigarette glowing orange in the dark. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell in this light.

"I'm rich," he said, his voice strange in his own ears. "I can afford the cleaning."

She laughed, sharp and startled. "That's what they all say. The ones who are, I mean. The fakes just say they'll tip the housekeeper extra."

"I'm not fake." Marcus drifted closer. "I'm Marcus. I work in..." He paused. What did he do anymore? "I move money around."

"I'm Lena." She took a drag, exhaling smoke that hung ghostlike between them. "I'm between things. Jobs. Lives. You know."

He did know. He'd been between lives since his daughter died, since his wife left, since he'd become something that looked like Marcus but was hollowed out inside. A zombie in Italian wool.

"The bull," he said suddenly. "The market. It keeps going up and I keep wondering when it'll trample everyone who believed in it."

"Metaphorically speaking?" Lena flicked ash into the water.

"Literally. I see it in my dreams. A bull with numbers branded on its side, charging through glass buildings. And I'm standing there, holding a sign that says 'BUY,' and I can't move, I can't run, I can't even scream."

The silence stretched. Water lapped at the pool's edges. Something fundamental shifted in Marcus's chest—something cracked open that he'd thought welded shut forever.

"You know what the worst part is?" His voice broke. "I made three million dollars last year, and I can't remember a single day of actually living it."

Lena slid into the water, clothes and all, and swam toward him. When she reached him, she took his face in both hands.

"We're not dead yet," she said. "The zombies are the ones who don't know they're already gone. You know. That's something."

She kissed him, and Marcus felt it—really felt it—like surfacing after holding his breath for three years.