The Architecture of Loss

At fifty-three, Ellie's hands shook when she applied the vitamin serum to her scalp. Another birthday, another failed promise from the bathroom mirror. The clumps of hair in the drain had become her morning greeting card.

"You're obsessing," Richard said, not looking up from his baseball magazine. He was thirty-nine and still believed his problems solved themselves if he ignored them long enough.

"It's been three months, Rich. The multilevel marketing scheme. The recruitment meetings. The 'investment opportunities.'" She counted on her fingers. "That's a pyramid scheme by any other name."

He adjusted his baseball cap—a Kansas City Royals hat she'd bought him three Father's Days ago, back when they still had things to celebrate. "It's not a scheme, El. It's an opportunity. Warren's already made twelve grand."

Warren, who lived in his mother's basement and sold stolen electronics on Craigslist.

Ellie sat across from him at the kitchen table they'd bought together, back when she'd still had hair and they'd still had savings. "Your sister's tumor was benign. That's the good news."

Richard finally looked up.

"The bad news is I maxed out the credit cards paying for the surgery since you emptied our account for this 'opportunity.'" She touched her bare scalp. The serum tingled. Or maybe that was just shame.

He reached for her hand, his palm warm and calloused from years of manual labor. He'd been a good man once, before the desperation set in, before he started measuring his worth in pyramid schemes and could-be fortunes.

"This next cycle, El. This is the one—"

"There is no next cycle." She stood up, the kitchen chair scraping against linoleum. "I'm moving in with Sarah."

He stared at her, really looked at her, perhaps for the first time in years. At the expensive serum, the wig she'd stopped wearing, the wedding ring that suddenly felt too tight.

"You're leaving? Over this?"

"I'm leaving because you're still swinging at pitches in the dirt and calling them strikes."