Foxes Don't Wear Hats

The convention center air smelled like desperation and artificial citrus. Marcus adjusted his fedora—affectation, really, but the clients expected a character—and checked his watch. Three hours until his vitamin supplement presentation, and his stomach was doing somersaults.

"You look like hell, Marcus."

Elena. His former business partner, his former everything, standing by the promotional banner with a drink in her hand. She'd always had this way of appearing like she'd materialized from thin air, smooth as a fox slipping through a garden fence.

"Rough night," he said, which was true. The pitch deck was due at midnight, and he'd spent three hours rewriting the same slide about bioavailability ratios.

"Those vitamin pills you're pushing? They're placebos with nice packaging." She took a sip of her cocktail. "Remember when we said we'd never become these people?"

Marcus remembered. Six years ago, sitting on her balcony, smoking cheap cigarettes and plotting their startup revolution. They were going to change the world. Instead, Elena had cashed out at the right moment and was now consulting for three different Fortune 500s. Marcus was still here, selling dreams in gelatin capsules.

"The rent's paid," he said, which wasn't really an answer.

She reached out, palm up, like she used to when reading his tea leaves in college. "Let me see your hand."

"Don't start that."

"Your lifeline's shorter than I remember," she said, tracing a finger across his palm. "But your success line? It's gotten complicated."

"You're the one who left for corporate consulting. Don't psychoanalyze me for choosing to stay."

"I left because I could see where we were heading." Her expression softened. "But you? You're still wearing that hat, still pretending to be someone you're not. Still trying to sell vitamins to people who just need to eat more vegetables."

Marcus felt something crack open in his chest. Maybe it was the convention lighting, too bright and exposing. Maybe it was the way she still looked at him like she knew all his secrets.

"I have a presentation to give," he said.

"I know." Elena stepped back, her attention already drifting toward the networking crowd. "Break a leg, friend."

She didn't watch him walk away. The last thing he saw was her hand—her palm—pressing against the glass exit door, pushing it open to step into the Florida heat, while he adjusted his hat and prepared to sell another dream.