The Last Bull

Margaret stood by the kitchen window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The sky burned orange, that particular shade that only comes at the end of things—a summer, a marriage, a life.

"He's a bull," her mother had said when Margaret married Marcus twenty years ago. "Strong, stubborn, but eventually, he'll break everything in his path."

She'd been right. Marcus's bullishness had built them an empire in agricultural futures, a portfolio that swelled and receded like tides. But it had eroded everything else. Their conversations now were transactional. Their intimacy, perfunctory.

Marcus came in then, smelling of whiskey and expensive cologne. "Market closed up three hundred points. Finally, the bull run is back."

"That's nice, Marcus." She didn't turn from the window.

He paused behind her. "You've been distant lately."

Margaret's heart rate spiked. Did he know? For three months, she'd been meeting Jacob—the private investigator Marcus had hired to uncover corporate espionage, not realizing the spy would uncover his wife instead. Jacob's reports on Marcus's offshore accounts had been thorough. His understanding of Margaret's loneliness, more so.

"Just thinking," she said.

"About what?"

She turned to face him. His eyes were the color of aged whiskey, and she searched them for any trace of the man she'd loved—the one who used to buy her orange blossoms on their anniversary, who once danced with her in a rainstorm. She couldn't find him anymore.

"About how things end," she said.

Marcus reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "What are you talking about, Mags? We're at the top of the world."

"No," she said softly. "We're at the top of the market. And bulls always fall."

She walked past him to the bedroom, packed a single bag. The orange glow of sunset had faded to gray when she slipped out the door, leaving behind the bull, the spy who wasn't really a spy anymore, and the ashes of a life that had burned too bright for too long.