Absorption Rates

Maya stood at the kitchen counter, forcing down the wilted spinach she'd sautéed with too much garlic. Her iPhone buzzed against the granite—David again. Three missed calls since lunch.

She swallowed the bitter greens without tasting them. The nutritionist had said her body was depleted, that she needed iron and folate. At forty-two, trying for a baby that might never come, she'd become a vessel for other people's advice. Take this vitamin supplement. Try this position. Reduce your stress. As if stress were a dial she could turn down.

The phone lit up with a photo David sent from his business conference in Scottsdale: a pool surrounded by palm trees, blue water glittering under desert sun. Swimming laps, he'd written. Wish you were here.

Maya remembered the last time they'd gone swimming together, almost two years ago. They'd been in Hawaii for their anniversary, staying at the resort his company paid for. She'd floated on her back while he did laps, cutting through the water with relentless precision, the way he did everything. Even then, she'd felt like she was watching him from a distance.

She picked up her phone and typed: Looks amazing. Have a great time.

Then she deleted the words and typed: miss you too.

Then she deleted that too and set the phone face down on the counter.

The prenatal vitamins sat in their orange plastic bottle beside her plate. She shook one out and dry-swallowed it, feeling it scrape down her throat like a secret she couldn't keep.

Outside, the March rain continued falling, indifferent to everything.