Market Correction

The spinach lay wilting in the colander, dark green leaves going slack like my resolve. Marcus hadn't called. Three hours past when he said he'd be home, and the dinner I'd planned—this attempt at something like normal—was already dying.

I opened the cabinet and stared at the vitamin bottles. His, mine. The Costco-sized containers that represented our joint commitment to growing old together, to staying healthy for the future we'd planned. His multivitamin had been touched yesterday. Mine sat untouched since last week. Even my supplements knew he was pulling away.

The orange on the counter caught the last light through the kitchen window. Perfect, bright, optimistic. I'd bought it at the farmer's market on Sunday, when Marcus had still held my hand while we walked. When he'd said, "We should do this more often," and I'd believed he meant everything, not just the market.

He was a bull on Wall Street—aggressive, decisive, someone who charged toward what he wanted. But that energy, that singular focus that made him brilliant at his job, made him impossible in marriage. He didn't see the collateral damage when he made his moves.

I picked up the orange and peeled it, the citrus scent sharp enough to make my eyes water. The segments came apart easily. Too easily. Like trust. Like promises made on Sunday mornings and broken by Wednesday dinners.

The front door opened.

"Sarah?" His voice carried the same confidence he brought to the trading floor. "Sorry, market went crazy. Had to stay."

He entered the kitchen, loosening his tie, not looking at the spinach, not noticing how the vitamins stood like sentinels over the wreckage of our evening. He reached for a segment of orange from my hand, his fingers brushing mine, and the casual intimacy of it—like nothing had changed—broke something loose in my chest.

"Sarah?" He frowned, finally seeing my face. "What's wrong?"

"The market," I said, and my voice sounded like someone else's. "It always goes crazy, doesn't it?"

"Babe—" He stepped closer, that bull-headed certainty in his eyes, the absolute conviction that he could fix this, talk his way out of consequences like he talked his clients out of bad positions.

"I'm done being your bailout, Marcus."

The spinach lay forgotten. The vitamins stood witness. And as he stood there, something finally dawning in his eyes, I finished the orange alone.