Market Animals

Mara stared at the red numbers cascading down her monitor, another bear market swallowing her portfolio whole. Forty-two years old and she was still waiting for the life she'd ordered to arrive.

"You're a shark, Mara," her father had told her, "but sharks drown if they stop moving."

Her phone buzzed—David, the fox. Twelve years ago, he'd charmed her out of her marriage with clever eyes and nothing to offer but rented tuxedos and promises. Now he wanted coffee, probably needed something. She'd deleted his number twice this year already.

"The bear'll pass," her boss said, leaning against her doorframe. Schmidt was a bull of a man—massive, stubborn, incapable of subtlety. He'd made millions in the nineties by refusing to sell when everyone else screamed. But he'd been married to the same woman for thirty years, owned a cabin in Montana, knew who he was. "Markets cycle. That's what they do."

Easy for him. He had something to return to when the numbers stopped making sense.

Mara walked home past the same restaurants, the same happy hours filled with people who seemed to know the script. She opened her apartment door and Barnaby—her aging golden retriever—thumped his tail against the floorboards, offering absolute devotion for the price of kibble and an occasional walk. He was better than any man she'd known. Better than David the fox, better than her ex-husband who'd left because she worked too much, better than the analysts she dated now who wanted to discuss her portfolio over dinner.

"At least you're honest," she told him, burying her face in his wheat-colored fur. He smelled like comfort.

She poured wine and opened her laptop, checking the overseas markets opening. Tokyo was green. Maybe tomorrow the bull would return. Maybe she'd finally make enough to feel like she could breathe. Maybe the fox would find someone else to charm. Maybe she'd stop measuring her worth in numbers that changed every six seconds.

Barnaby rested his head on her knee. The candle she'd lit flickered, casting long shadows against walls she'd meant to paint for three years.

Outside, the city hummed with people who were certain they knew where they were going. Mara took a sip of wine, patted Barnaby's head, and waited for the markets to open.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow everything will be different.

It always was. Just never in the way she expected.