First Base in the Bull Market

Sarah sat alone in the baseball stadium, seventh inning stretch, nursing a flat beer. The Cubs were down by three runs, and somewhere in the corporate box above, Richard was probably still holding court, bullish on the merger that would dismantle half the department.

She'd kept the goldfish. It was the only thing she'd taken from his apartment last night—a shimmering orange comet in a bowl on her kitchen counter. Richard called it "that dumb fish" the way he called everything that couldn't turn a profit: dumb, pointless, a waste of space.

"You're too sensitive," he'd said, pulling on his socks. "It's just business."

It wasn't just business. It was Mara from accounting, whisper-smart and fox-sharp, who'd been positioning herself for months. Sarah had seen it—the late-night "strategy sessions," the coy glances across the conference table, the way Mara's hand lingered on Richard's arm during presentations. She'd been playing a different game entirely while Sarah was still trying to round first base.

The baseball stadium lights flickered on as dusk settled. Around her, couples shared popcorn and fathers pointed out players to sons. Sarah thought about how goldfish were said to have three-second memories—how convenient that would be, to forget every betrayal the instant it happened. Instead, she remembered everything: Richard's voice when he said he'd never met anyone like her, the way Mara looked at her across the breakroom yesterday like she'd already won.

The scoreboard flashed a sponsor's logo. BULL INVESTMENT GROUP. Somewhere, a bull mascot waved to the crowd.

Her phone buzzed. Richard. Again.

Sarah stood up, leaving the beer untouched. She would go home and feed that dumb fish. She would call her sister in the morning. She would update her resume. And tonight, she would sleep in her own bed, alone, with the door locked and the goldfish watching from its bowl, swimming circles in water that was finally, beautifully clear.