Green Leaves and Sharp Teeth

Emma stared at the spinach stuck in Marcus's teeth—a tiny green flag surrendering to the inevitable decay between them. Three years of marriage, and this was what it had come to: noticing the vegetable debris while he explained, with clinical precision, why her mother's vitamin supplements were a scam.

"It's basically expensive urine," he said, rinsing his plate. "The absorption rate is negligible."

His Fox & Friends podcast droned from the living room. Marcus, the clever fox who'd outsmarted loneliness by finding someone predictable. Someone who would cook dinner, who would listen, who would slowly dissolve into the furniture of his life.

Emma had started taking B12 secretly—not because she believed in miracles, but because she needed something to believe in. Each pill was a small rebellion, a tiny不肯妥协 in a life that felt increasingly like a negotiation she'd never agreed to.

At work, there was Daniel. The new analyst with eyes that actually seemed to see her. Last week, when Emma mentioned the spinach incident, Daniel had laughed—really laughed—and said, "My ex-wife used to say I had emotional scurvy. Maybe we all need different vitamins."

It wasn't an affair. Not yet. But it was something. The possibility of being chosen again. Of being seen.

That night, as Marcus slept beside her, breathing in that familiar rhythm that used to comfort her and now felt like suffocation, Emma considered the vitamin bottle in her nightstand. She could stop taking them. She could leave. She could become the fox instead of the prey.

Instead, she swallowed the pill dry, closed her eyes, and dreamed of gardens where nothing grew but the things you allowed to take root.