The Last Vitamin

The bull had been watching them from its mount on the wall for seven years—taxidermied head, glass eyes catching the afternoon light, horns sweeping toward the ceiling like some dark blessing. Elena smoothed her hair, noticing another strand on her pillow. Forty-two, and her body was beginning its quiet betrayal.

"Your vitamins," Marco said, not looking up from his phone.

She swallowed them with hotel water—D, B12, the expensive ones her doctor swore would help with stress, sleep, the vague persistent fatigue that had followed her since she'd stopped sleeping properly six months ago. Marco called them her little candies.

"Padel?" she asked. They were in Marbella for his birthday—his idea, his club, his friends.

The game was brutal. Her wrist ached from yesterday. Elena's partner—Marco's business partner's wife—kept missing shots, apologizing in that English way that was really just politeness weaponized. Meanwhile, Marco played across the net, shirtless, his chest still smooth, his hair thick and dark, shouting instructions to everyone, dominating the court like he did everything.

The bull watched from the restaurant terrace, where they'd all gather afterward for overpriced rosé and tapas. Elena would sit quietly while Marco held court, telling stories, laughing too loudly at his own jokes. She would count the vitamins she'd forgotten to take, the ones that might have made this easier.

"You're distracted," he'd told her that morning, examining her face like a mechanic checking for dents.

She'd almost told him then. About the emails. About the hotel room she'd booked for Tuesday, when she was supposed to be visiting her mother. About how she'd started imagining her life without him—without the bull, without the expectations, without the constant performance of being Marco's wife.

Instead, she'd swallowed her vitamins and said: "Just tired."

Now, on the padel court, sweating through her third game of the morning, Elena watched Marco smash a winner past his opponent's shoulder. He turned, raised his arms to the crowd, basking in it. She thought about the Tuesday keycard burning a hole in her purse.

"Your serve," someone called.

Elena stepped to the line, bounced the ball, and for the first time in seven years, she didn't think about what Marco would want. She served long—perfectly, ruthlessly long. The ball sailed past the baseline, untouchable.

"Out!" Marco shouted, already turning away.

But it wasn't. And for once, she didn't correct him.