The Salad Days Are Over

Gary stood in the breakroom, staring at the plastic container of wilted spinach that had been sitting in the fridge for three weeks. Like his marriage, like his career, like the last remaining strands of hope he'd been nurturing since the turn of the millennium — all slowly turning to mush in the cold fluorescent light.

"You gonna eat that, or just meditate on it?" The voice belonged to Tyler, the new senior analyst. Twenty-six, with the kind of jawline that made you hate capitalism all over again. Tyler was a fox in every sense — cunning, attractive, and currently sleeping with Gary's boss.

"It's expired," Gary said, and tossed the spinach into the bin. The sound was heavier than it should have been.

Gary walked back to his desk. His vitamin D supplements sat next to his monitor, a sad little graveyard of yellow pills he kept forgetting to take. His doctor had told him he was deficient. Deficient. The word had lodged in his chest like a fishhook.

In the conference room, the regional director was delivering another presentation about "synergy" and "thinking outside the box." Gary had stopped listening years ago. The man was full of bull, but what wasn't bull these days? The whole corporate structure was built on it — layers and layers of polite, well-compensated bullshit.

After work, Gary drove to the old baseball field where he'd played as a kid. The fences were rotting, the bleachers vandalized. He sat on the hood of his Honda and cracked a lukewarm beer he'd bought from a convenience store.

His phone buzzed. A text from his ex-wife: "Did you pick up the allergy medicine from the pharmacy?"

Gary stared at the message. The allergy medicine. The vitamins. The spinach he'd thrown away. All the little maintenance tasks that comprised a life. He used to dream about writing novels. Now he dreamed about clearing his inbox.

A fox — a real one, this time — darted across the edge of the parking lot, pausing to look at him with wild, indifferent eyes before disappearing into the woods.

Gary took a drink of beer. Somewhere, somewhere there was a version of himself who had made different choices. Who hadn't settled. Who was still hungry.

But this wasn't that story.

He finished the beer and started the car. Tomorrow was another day. He'd buy fresh spinach. He'd take his vitamins. He'd keep showing up.

That's what adults did. That's the bull they sold themselves.

And God help him, he was buying it.