Pyramids of Orange

Marcus stood at the padel court, sweat dripping down his temples, watching the orange ball ricochet off the glass walls. At 47, he'd bought into the wellness pyramid scheme like everyone else in his demographic—terrified of decay, obsessed with preservation.

His racquet partner, Elena, sliced a papaya in the clubhouse afterward. She sold essential oils and vitamins now, after her divorce. "You should try this," she said, cutting him a wedge. "It's got more enzymes than anything at the pharmacy."

The papaya was perfect, disturbingly so. Marcus thought about his ex-wife's voice when she'd left: "You're always supplementing things that should be whole."

That evening, he counted his vitamin collection—B12, D3, magnesium, zinc, some gray-market anti-aging compound from a guy Elena knew. They lined his bathroom counter like monoliths, small pyramids of hope against entropy. He swallowed them with orange juice, staring at his reflection. The face was still recognizable, but something had hollowed behind the eyes.

His phone buzzed. Elena: "Padel tomorrow? Bringing a client. Potential downline."

Marcus typed yes, then deleted it. He stared at the orange glow of sunset through his window, remembering how papaya seeds looked like pearls, how the ball had sounded against the glass, how Elena's knife had cut so cleanly through something that would rot anyway.

He flushed the vitamins down the toilet.

The water swirled in a pyramid, taking them away.