The Art of Drowning in Air

The last time I saw Marcus, he was telling me how to take the bull by the horns. That was his phrase for everything—quarterly targets, hostile takeovers, the woman at the bar who wasn't interested. Marcus was all horns, no heart.

Now he sits across from me at this understated bistro in Portland, three years and one spectacular corporate collapse later. He's thinner, the sharp angles of his face softened by something like exhaustion.

"You look like you've been swimming upstream," I say, pushing the spinach across my plate.

Marcus laughs, but it's a dry sound. "More like drowning in air, Elena. Remember how I used to say I'd never work for anyone else?"

I remember. I also remember the SEC investigation that made headlines last year, the way our mutual friends stopped calling him. He'd been a shark in a tank that got drained, and now he was flopping on the dock.

"I'm not hungry," I say, signaling for the check. "Walk with me?"

We end up at the community center where I swim laps three times a week. The pool is empty except for a single lane rope dividing the blue expanse.

"I forgot you swim," Marcus says, leaning against the wall.

"Keeps me sane."

He tells me then about the diagnosis—early-onset Parkinson's. The irony of a man who built an empire on sheer force of will now losing control of his own movements. The bull was dying by inches.

"I don't know how to be still," he admits, voice cracking. "I never learned."

I watch the way his hand trembles against his thigh. Marcus, who treated every moment like a hostile takeover, now confronting the one thing he couldn't acquire, leverage, or negotiate with.

"Get in," I say.

"What?"

"The water. It holds you up. You don't have to fight."

He hesitates, then strips to his boxers and slides into the shallow end. I join him, and for an hour we don't speak. We just float, two former friends suspended in blue, while the bull learns to swim.