The Last Cowboy Wears Steel

The mechanical bull bucks violently beneath Marcus, its fiberglass hide already worn smooth by three years of desperate drunks seeking temporary glory. He grips the reins with white-knuckled intensity, unaware that the real ride had ended hours ago.

She's sitting at the corner table, the one with the flickering neon sign overhead. Sarah. His oldest friend. The woman who'd stood by him through three failed startups and one spectacular divorce. Now she watches him with that familiar mixture of pity and exhaustion, as if she's calculating exactly how many drinks it will take before he admits defeat.

Marcus climbs down from the bull, stumbling slightly. The room tilts. His cowboy hat—a ridiculous affectation he'd adopted during his crypto-wealth phase—slides askance. He straightens it automatically, a gesture so ingrained in muscle memory that his body performs it while his mind drifts elsewhere.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah says when he reaches her table. Her voice is devoid of judgment, which somehow makes it worse. "When was the last time you slept?"

Marcus waves toward the bartender, a silent request for another round. "Sleep is for people who haven't figured out that consciousness is essentially a glitch in the evolutionary algorithm."

She doesn't laugh. "Your dog died three weeks ago, Marcus. You haven't left your apartment since."

The mention of Buster hollows him out. The golden retriever had been the last living thing that genuinely enjoyed his company. The last uncomplicated relationship in a life constructed entirely from transactions and failed negotiations.

"I was going to call you," he says, and hates himself immediately because it's the kind of thing you say when you both know it's not true.

Sarah reaches across the table and takes his hand. Her palm is warm, calloused from the climbing gym she frequents three times a week. "I know. That's why I came."

Outside, a police sirens wail. Somewhere in the distance, a city of eight million people continues its indifferent rotation. Marcus looks at his friend—really looks at her—and realizes she's the only person who never stopped seeing him as human, even when he'd forgotten how to be one himself.

He puts the hat on the table. "I'm tired, Sarah."

"I know," she says, already standing. "Let's go home."