The Burden We Bear

The restaurant was too loud, too expensive, and exactly where Richard wanted to be seen. I watched him chew his way through something described as 'wilted spinach' but was essentially fifteen dollars of regret. A single green leaf clung to his incisor like a desperate accusation.

"You're not hearing me, Sarah," he said, pointing his fork at me. "This bear market is temporary. We're positioned perfectly."

A bear market. That's what we were calling it now. Not "you lost everyone's retirement savings" or "the SEC is asking questions." Just a bear market. Something you endured, something that hibernated and eventually left.

I thought about calling him a friend. The word sat in my throat like something I'd swallowed wrong. Twenty years of shared history, and what did I actually know about him? That he was generous with other people's money and stingy with the truth.

His wife's dog, a neurotic terrier named Buster, had died last month. Richard had cried more about that dog than about the three employees we'd laid off the same week. "He was family," he'd said, and I'd wondered if he knew their names.

"Sarah?"

I reached for my wine glass. "You have spinach in your teeth, Richard."

He froze. The carefully constructed confidence—$300 suit, corporate posture, the boyish charm that had made him beloved by investors—fractured. He wiped frantically at his mouth with a linen napkin.

"Is it gone?"

"Yes."

He recovered quickly. Richard always recovered quickly. "Look, about that bonus we discussed—"

"I'm not taking it."

The silence between us stretched, heavy and unignorable. Outside, the city moved forward without us. Somewhere, someone was telling the truth to someone who needed to hear it. Somewhere, the word friend still meant something.

"You're making a mistake," Richard said, but his voice had lost its certainty.

"Maybe," I said, signaling for the check. "But it's mine to make."