The Art of Waiting

Sarah pressed her palm against the bathroom mirror, watching condensation ripple around her fingers. Thirty-eight years old, and still waiting.

The vitamin organizer sat on the counter—calcium, D3, CoQ10, folic acid. A constellation of hope in plastic compartments. Mark called them her science experiments, but he'd stopped asking what each pill was for six months ago.

She was supposed to be running by now. 5:30 AM, three miles along the riverfront, training for the marathon she'd signed up for as some kind of penance. As if forward motion could outrun the stagnation inside.

"Coffee's ready," Mark called from the kitchen. His voice had that careful tone, like he was speaking to a skittish animal.

Sarah leaned closer to the mirror, examining a single silver hair at her temple. She'd found it yesterday and left it, a secret rebellion against the dye appointments that had become monthly rituals. Now two more had appeared overnight, spiraling like tiny question marks.

The third round of IVF had failed three weeks ago. The doctor had used words like " diminished reserve" and "consider donor," phrases that landed like stones in water.

She thought about palm trees they'd seen in Hawaii five years ago, how she'd pressed her hand against one and imagined she could feel time moving through it, rings within rings. Mark had laughed, taking a picture, saying something about how young they were.

Now he was in the kitchen waiting. She could hear him setting down mugs, the ceramic clinking too loud against the counter. The vitamins blurred together in her reflection.

She took them all at once, dry swallow against the morning tightness in her throat. Then she pulled on her running shoes, tied the laces double-knotted, and opened the door into a day that hadn't yet decided what it would become.