Spinach in the Teeth

The text came at 2 AM—three words that undid five years: *He's not yours.*

Elena became a **spy** in her own life. She scrolled through Marcus's phone while he showered, studied his running routes on Strava, memorized the license plates of cars parked outside his office. Her morning **vitamin** regimen expanded to include supplements for anxiety she couldn't admit to anyone. D3 for bone strength, magnesium for sleep, B-complex for the fraying edges of her nervous system.

Tuesday nights were **padel** matches at the club—Marcus's new obsession. Elena sat in the clubhouse watching him move across the court, laughing at jokes she couldn't hear from a woman named Sophie who hit forehands with practiced ease. Elena ordered the spinach salad every time, picking at it while the staff pretended not to notice the woman who always sat alone.

"You've got **spinach** in your teeth," Sophie said one evening, sliding into the chair opposite her. "Marcus mentioned you come every week. Thought you might want to know."

Elena wiped her mouth, caught the mirror's reflection. A dark green wedge stuck between her front teeth like a tiny flag of surrender.

"He talks about me?"

"Only when he loses." Sophie's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Says his ex-wife tracks his matches. Says it's sad."

The divorce papers were already drafted in Elena's nightstand. She'd been carrying them for months like a **bear** in hibernation—something dangerous and dormant, waking only when spring finally came.

"We're not divorced yet," Elena said. "And I'm not sad."

"No?" Sophie signaled the waitress. "What would you call it?"

Elena looked across the court where Marcus shook hands with his partner, laughing. Outside, the last snow of winter melted into mud.

"I'd call it," Elena said, "the year I learned to stop taking vitamins for problems I could solve myself."