The Supplement Aisle

Marissa stood in the vitamin aisle at ten p.m., clutching a bottle of B-12 like it might actually fix what was broken inside. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, that persistent headache-inducing hum that seemed to follow her everywhere lately.

"You look like someone who's had a very long day," said a voice behind her.

She turned to find a man maybe ten years her senior, gray creeping into his temples, holding an orange juice carton like it was something precious. His eyes were kind, the kind that had seen enough of life's bullshit to find humor in it still.

"The longest," Marissa said, and something about the late hour, the empty store, the surreality of this stranger made her add: "My boss called me a bulldog today. He meant it as a compliment, I think. Said I don't let go until I get what I want."

The man's mouth tilted up at the corner. "I used to be a bull in a china shop. Now I'm just the guy wondering whether I really need this much vitamin C, or if I just like the ritual of buying orange juice when I can't sleep."

"Insomnia?"

"Regret," he said simply. Then, "I'm David, by the way. Former bull, current admirer of people who shop for supplements at ten p.m. on a Tuesday."

"Marissa." She almost smiled. "Current bulldog, future... something else. Hopefully."

They ended up at the coffee bar around the corner, the only place still open. David told her about leaving corporate law to open a bookstore that was hemorrhaging money but making him happy in ways he'd forgotten were possible. Marissa found herself telling him things she hadn't said aloud—that she'd taken the vitamin supplements because her mother swore they'd help with stress, that she'd stayed late at the office again because she was terrified of going home to her empty apartment, that she wasn't sure bulldog was really a compliment anymore.

"You know," David said, peeling the orange he'd bought from the store's impulse bin, "there's this theory about why we're drawn to certain colors. Orange represents enthusiasm, fascination, happiness. But also aggression. It's intense."

He separated a section and offered it to her.

"Like being a bulldog,"

"Exactly. Sometimes intensity is just fear that's been marketed as strength."

Marissa took the orange. It was bright against her palm, impossibly vivid. She ate it and didn't think about her email inbox once.

"I'm supposed to be at work at seven tomorrow,"

"I'm supposed to be worrying about rent," David said. "Instead, I'm eating an orange with a stranger who might be figuring out that bulldog isn't who she has to be."

She looked at him—really looked—at the lines around his eyes, the way he held himself like someone who'd survived something difficult and come out softer for it.

"Next Tuesday?" she asked.

"Ten p.m.," he said. "Vitamin aisle."

Marissa drove home with the windows down, spring air filling her car, and left her phone in her bag. The B-12 bottle sat on the passenger seat like a promise she wasn't sure she'd need to keep anymore.