Sunday Morning Deficiency

Elena stared at the orange prescription bottle on her counter. Vitamin D3, 5000 IU. The doctor said her levels were critically low—that explained the fatigue, the brain fog, the way her body felt like it was moving through molasses. She dry-swallowed another pill, wondering if the deficiency was physical or something deeper.

Her hair, once thick and chestnut, had been thinning for months. Strands clogged the shower drain like warnings she kept ignoring. At thirty-seven, she was too young for this kind of decay, yet there she was, conducting daily inventory of her own deterioration.

Barnaby, her golden retriever, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He had been her mother's dog, inherited like the antique furniture and the unresolved guilt. Seven years since the funeral, and still Elena waited to feel like an adult rather than a child playing dress-up in her mother's life.

"You're the only one who doesn't expect anything from me," she told him, scratching behind his ears. Barnaby thumped his tail against the cabinet, content with minimum wage love.

She should have been preparing for her presentation. Monday's quarterly review would determine whether her team survived the restructuring. Instead, she sat on her kitchen floor, sunlight streaming through the window she never cleaned, palm pressed against the cool tile.

The lines on her palm had deepened. She traced them, something she'd done since childhood, pretending they were rivers and roads, stories she could navigate if she only learned to read them properly. Her mother had read palms at parties, a playful parlor trick that made strangers feel seen. Elena had inherited the intuition but not the faith in it.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus. "You coming over tonight? Still have those tequila tickets?"

She thought about Marcus's hands on her skin, the way he made her laugh until her ribs ached, how he never asked about her work or her mother or the vitamin deficiencies she couldn't quite correct. She thought about telling him yes, about losing herself in something warm and uncomplicated.

Instead, she typed: "Rain check. Need to rest."

Barnaby rested his head on her knee. Outside, the neighbor's lawnmower sputtered to life. The ordinary machinery of another ordinary Sunday. Elena closed her eyes and breathed, vitamin dissolving in her stomach, hair falling around her face, dog's steady heartbeat against her leg, palm open toward whatever came next.