Margin Calls and Orange Peels

The bull market had been kind to Marcus, but the bear had finally woken from hibernation, and it was hungry. Three years of compounded gains—gone in three months. His hair, once a distinguished salt-and-pepper that matched the mahogany of his corner office desk, had thinned to reveal more scalp than he cared to see in the mirror each morning.

'Stole another orange, didn't you?'

Marcus looked up. Elena stood in his doorway, that half-smile playing on her lips like it always did. She was twenty years his junior, brilliant, and entirely too perceptive for someone whose portfolio consisted entirely of index funds and modest 401(k) contributions.

'It's the vitamin C,' he said, defensive. 'My immune system is shot. Stress eats you alive from the inside out.'

'Eat an actual vegetable sometime, Marcus. Peel the orange first—it's the ritual that matters.' She stepped into his office, closed the door behind her. The market tickers glowed red across his monitor, a sea of bleeding numbers. 'The board called this morning.'

He nodded slowly. He'd expected this. 'They want my head.'

'They want a sacrificial lamb. There's a difference.' She leaned against his desk, her hip brushing his papers. 'I told them I'd resign if they pushed you out.'

Marcus laughed, a dry, brittle sound. 'Why would you do that?'

'Because,' she said, and her voice dropped to something softer, something dangerous, 'you taught me that the bull and the bear are just animals. They don't care about us. But we're supposed to care about each other.' She reached out, took the half-peeled orange from his desk, finished peeling it. Her fingers were stained with citrus oil. 'Also, I'm rather fond of that hair, such as it remains.'

The market opened in twenty minutes. Another day of blood. But Marcus found he didn't care quite as much as he had yesterday. Some things, he realized, were too volatile to trade on.