Joel Karlsson was rich and very sad. He sat alone in his office suite, sifting through the reasons he should not call his ex-wife. The first four digits of the last number for Cynthia he’d known to be working shone on his phone. They taunted him a while before he locked the screen and turned to look out the bay window at the city.
He could see the harsh lines of monolithic buildings jutting above the geometric clutter of the cityscape below and the subtler, softer line of the horizon in the distance. For nearly fifteen years, looking down on this city had given Joel the adrenaline rush he’d fought furiously for his whole life. Now, at fifty-seven, he felt nothing.
His desk phone rang. Joel picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Brian,” he said.
“Hey, Joel. We’re in the south conference room for the derivatives meeting with RBS. Do you want to join in on this?”
“No, Brian. You go ahead and handle it how you like.”
“Uh, Joel, this is a pretty big one. Are you sure you don’t want to listen in at least.”
“No, you go ahead. And come by my office when you wrap up,” Joel said.
“Alright. I will.”
He turned back to the window and looked down and out, and he could see the little brown roof of the restaurant where he’d taken Cynthia for their first date…
