The Last Day of August

The bull statue in the corporate plaza had always seemed ridiculous to Elena—a bronze embodiment of market optimism she'd stopped believing in three quarters ago. She stood before it now, her fedora pulled low against the autumn wind, waiting for him.

"You're wearing the hat," David said, appearing behind her. His voice held that familiar note of accusation wrapped in nostalgia.

"It's my father's funeral. I'm allowed to wear whatever I want."

They'd been sleeping together for six months, a slow-motion collision of two people who should have known better. He was married. She was his boss's daughter. The bull market had made everyone reckless, but personal economies always crashed harder.

"My wife bought me a dog," David said suddenly. "A golden retriever. She thinks it'll fix things."

Elena laughed, a sharp sound. "That's not how it works. You don't fix a marriage with a golden retriever any more than you fix a marriage by sleeping with your boss's daughter."

"I'm leaving her," he said, but his eyes slid away from hers.

"You said that last month. And the month before."

The corporate world swirled around them—traders in suits, assistants with coffees, everyone swimming upstream while Elena and David stood anchored in their private eddy of bad decisions.

"Remember Cancún?" David asked. "When we went swimming at night, and you made me promise I'd leave her by Christmas?"

"I remember you promising, not me making you. There's a difference."

She checked her watch. Her father's memorial started in twenty minutes. The man who'd built this company, who'd erected this stupid bull, was being eulogized by the same people who'd been shorting his legacy for years.

"I love you," David said, and this time he looked at her straight on.

"No," she said. "You love how I make you feel. There's a difference."

She adjusted her hat and turned toward the building where her father's colleagues would say nice things about a man who'd been terrible to his wife and distant with his daughter, but brilliant with money.

"The dog's name is Buster," David called after her.

Elena didn't look back. Some things weren't worth saving. Some markets weren't worth betting on. She walked into the building alone, swimming through the crowd like she'd been doing her whole life—alone, and finally, finally okay with it.