The Long Shower

Mara stood under the hot water for the twenty-third morning in a row, watching her hair darken against the white tile as the cheap dye bled out. She'd become a zombie of her former self — moving through the marketing department's deadlines on autopilot, her presentations polished and hollow, her smile a learned reflex.

"You look tired," David had said two nights ago, his fingers tangling in her hair at the nape of her neck. He'd meant it kindly. He always did. That was the problem.

She'd started taking the vitamins he bought — bright orange gelcaps that smelled like citrus and optimism. He'd researched them, printed out articles about B-complex and adrenal fatigue. He was trying to fix her. She was letting him.

The water ran cold. She turned it off but didn't move.

Her mother had called yesterday. "Your father's forgetting things," she'd said, her voice small. "He put the milk in the cupboard again." Mara had made sympathetic sounds, scheduled a visit she didn't have time for, and immediately forgotten to write it down. The zombie fatigue was catching.

She looked at her hands, pruned from the water, and thought about how she'd always assumed adulthood would feel more substantial. That she'd arrive at some point where the ground felt solid beneath her feet. Instead, everything was dissolving — her ambition, her marriage, the careful narrative she'd constructed about success.

David knocked on the bathroom door. "You okay in there?"

"Fine," she said. "Just washing my hair."

She wasn't. She was just standing there, waiting for something to feel real again.

She toweled off, swallowed the vitamin without water, and opened the door. David smiled at her, that same expectant look in his eyes. She smiled back. Some habits were harder to break than others.