The Green Hour

The fourth vitamin D pill of the morning caught in her throat, and Maya coughed, watching dust motes dance in the fluorescent office lighting. She'd been taking supplements for three years—ever since David left—but the only thing growing stronger was her cynicism.

"You look like shit," Sarah said, leaning against Maya's cubicle wall with a smoothie that cost more than Maya's lunch. "Running again last night?"

"Ten miles."

"You're going to burn out before you're forty."

"I feel like I've been a zombie since thirty-two," Maya replied, not joking.

That was the thing about running: it was the only hour she didn't feel like she was moving underwater, the only time her brain stopped replaying conversations that had happened five years ago. Her knees clicked when she stood up. Something to look forward to.

"My date last night asked what I was passionate about," Sarah continued, oblivious. "I couldn't answer. I just sat there thinking about how I have three different vitamin subscriptions and zero interests."

Maya's mother had been passionate about spinach. Not the nutrition—she didn't care about iron or vitamins—but the ritual of it. Every Sunday, fresh spinach from the farmer's market, washed three times, dried with a linen towel, served plain. "Real food doesn't need hiding," she'd said, while Maya's father lived on protein shakes and ambition.

He'd died of a heart attack at fifty. Perfect bloodwork, zero joy.

"You know what I miss?" Maya said suddenly. "My mom's spinach. She died eight years ago and I still can't buy spinach at the grocery store without feeling like I'm betraying her."

Sarah was quiet. Then, "You okay?"

"No."

"Me neither."

They stood there as the office hummed around them, two women in their thirties who had everything except something real. Outside, it started to rain.

"I have spinach at my place," Sarah said. "Real stuff. From the market this morning."

"You hate cooking."

"I know. But I bought it anyway. Just in case."

Maya thought about her evening. The running shoes by the door. The vitamins lined up on the counter like little soldiers. The treadmill.

"I'll skip the run tonight," she said.

Sarah's smoothie was warm by the time they left, but neither of them cared. Some things were more important than perfect timing.