The Bull Market of Broken Things

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of racquet against ball, but Mara heard nothing through the perpetual fog of exhaustion. Three weeks of sixty-hour weeks at the hedge fund had turned her into something that shuffled through life rather than lived it—a creature her therapist called 'functionally depressed' but she knew was simply a zombie in business casual.

Her iphone vibrated against the bench for the third time in as many minutes. Another bull market projection from Marcus, her boss, who demanded she stay glued to the terminal even during Sunday matches. Mara's hand trembled as she reached for it, noticing for the first time how gray her hair had become at the temples—silver threads that appeared while she'd been too busy to notice her own reflection.

"You're going bald, James," she said suddenly, turning to her husband across the net. His hairline had receded another quarter-inch since last month. "We're both falling apart."

James lowered his racquet, sweat dripping down his temple. "That's what you're thinking about? Not how Marcus called you at ten PM last night? Not how we haven't had sex in six weeks?"

"The bull market waits for no one, James. You know that."

"Neither does death, Mara. Neither does death." He hit a ball against the wall, watching it bounce back hollowly. "We're just zombies collecting bonuses. When did we decide this was enough?"

Mara looked at her iphone again. Three missed calls from Marcus. The bull was charging, and she was the matador who'd forgotten how to hold the cape. She reached out—tentatively, desperately—and took James's hand across the net.

"Tonight," she said. "Tonight we turn it off. All of it."

The zombie in her eyes flickered with something that might have been hope.