Market Corrections

Marcus swirled the **water** in his glass, watching the crystal catch the candlelight. The restaurant was too expensive for a Tuesday, but Elena had insisted. She insisted on everything these days.

"You're not listening," she said, pushing a piece of **spinach** around her plate with her fork. "I asked about Prague."

"I heard you. I'm thinking about it."

"You've been thinking about it for six months. The transfer offer expires Friday."

Marcus took a long drink. The market had been a **bear** all week, his portfolio bleeding red across three monitors since Monday. His stomach had been in knots, a constant low-grade nausea that no amount of Pepto could touch. And now this.

"What if I said no?" he asked.

Elena's fork clattered against the plate. "Then we have a real conversation about what happens next. Because I can't keep doing this—existing in your peripheral vision while you stare at charts and pretend the world doesn't exist beyond your trading floor."

"It's not just charts. It's our future."

"Our future? Marcus, you almost missed your mother's birthday dinner because you were waiting for the Fed announcement. You forgot to pick Emma up from camp because you were shorting pharmaceutical stocks. You don't see us anymore. You see numbers."

The waiter arrived with their entrées, placing a perfect little **pyramid** of risotto in front of each of them. Marcus stared at it. It looked like something that should be photographed, not eaten. Everything in their lives had become like that—styled, curated, posted, performed.

"Remember when we met?" she said, her voice softer now. "You told me that whole story about wanting to build something real. That was the **bull** you sold me, wasn't it?"

"I meant it."

"Did you? Or did you just like how I looked in that dress?"

Marcus reached across the table and took her hand. Her skin was cool, her fingers stiff. "I still love how you look in that dress. I still love you."

"Love isn't enough anymore," she said, pulling away. "Love is the baseline requirement. The question is whether you actually want a life, or just the appearance of one."

She stood up, leaving her risotto untouched. "I'm going to Prague alone, Marcus. You can join me, or you can stay here and watch your numbers get smaller. But I'm done waiting."

Marcus watched her walk out, the restaurant door swinging shut behind her. He signaled for the check, then caught his own reflection in the darkened window—alone, expensive meal uneaten, realizing too late that some things can't be hedged.