The Weight of Water

The spinach salad tasted like regret, which Marcus thought was appropriate for lunch on a Tuesday. He picked at the wilted greens while staring out the window of the corporate clubhouse, where the padel courts gleamed pristine and impossible beneath artificial lights.

His phone buzzed. Another email from upstairs.

Marcus had played bear in the stock market for fifteen years, betting against optimism, and he'd won more than he'd lost. But the market had changed. Now you needed algorithms, not instinct. Now you needed to be younger, hungrier, willing to check your iPhone at 3 AM and smile about it.

He watched his colleagues through the glass—David and Sarah from compliance, laughing as they smashed the bright blue ball back and forth. The way her hair caught the light when she tossed her head back. The way David's hand lingered on her shoulder when they switched sides.

Some things you could ignore. Some things accumulated like silt at the bottom of a river.

Marcus took a sip of water. It tasted metallic. Everything tasted metallic these days.

"You joining us, or just gonna watch?" Sarah called through the open door. She was flushed, radiant in a way that made something sharp twist in his chest.

"In a minute."

He opened the email. It wasn't about the quarterly projections. It was about her—about them, about the rumors, about how this was a small office and appearances mattered, and wasn't it time he considered...

Outside, David missed a shot. The ball skittered across the court. Sarah laughed, and the sound carried like water breaking against rocks.

Marcus deleted the message. Then his phone. Then stood up, his knees making that clicking sound that had started last year, that sounded exactly like his father's knees had.

The spinach sat heavy in his stomach. He walked toward the door, toward the noise and the light and whatever happened next. Some bears didn't hibernate. Some bears just woke up hungry.