The Arithmetic of Leaving

The bull market had been kind to David—too kind, perhaps. At forty-seven, he had everything the brokerage promised: the corner office, the portfolio that bloomed like something on steroids, the empty apartment with its view of the city's financial district like a circuit board he'd mastered but never understood.

He sat at the kitchen counter in his shirtsleeves, the fluorescence unkind. A container of takeout curry sat open beside his laptop. He picked at the complementary spinach saag with his fork, remembering how Elena used to make the real thing—her hands stained with turmeric, the kitchen smelling of cumin and something else, something like home.

"You're chasing ghosts," she'd told him three years ago, standing in this very kitchen. "The bull runs forever until it doesn't. What happens to us then?"

He hadn't answered. He never did. The numbers were safer.

Now, as the terminal on his screen flashed red across sectors, David watched something unwind that had nothing to do with equities. His phone buzzed—an alert from a trading app he hadn't closed. Diversified holdings down 14%. Margin calls possible.

He thought about the orange grove they'd visited in California, back when they believed weekends could stretch forever. They'd stood between rows of ancient trees, Elena explaining how the fruit ripened even after harvest, how some sweetness came slowly, in darkness. "Not everything peaks at noon," she'd said, pressing an orange into his palm.

The fruit had sat on his desk for weeks, softening, until he threw it out.

Outside his window, the city lights flickered on—a million people making a million decisions. David's phone vibrated again. His broker, probably. Or perhaps the automated system, polite and final. Instead of answering, he reached for the spinach, tasting it properly for the first time. Bitter. Earthy. Real.

The bull had been a lie all along. Some things, he realized too late, couldn't be quantified.