The Supplements of Regret

Martha stared at the orange plastic bottle in her palm. The vitamin D supplement—her doctor's orders, her latest attempt to fix what years of fluorescent office lighting had broken. Outside her window, Chicago rain streaked the glass like tears she wouldn't allow herself to cry.

Her cat, Barnaby, wound through her legs, purring with the calculated affection of a creature who knew exactly when mealtime approached. At least someone still needed her, even if it was only because she controlled the can opener.

The email from HR still glowed on her monitor: restructure, redundancy, corporate euphemisms for "you're fifty-two and expensive." Her boss, Richard—call him Dick, she thought bitterly—had taken her by the bull horns in the conference room yesterday. "Martha," he'd said, with that predatory smile of his, "it's just business. Nothing personal."

Nothing personal. As if twenty-three years of her life could be reduced to a spreadsheet column.

She thought of David, the new hire in marketing. Forty, divorced, with hungry eyes and a laugh that made her remember what desire felt like. He'd called her foxy last week at the holiday party, the words loose on his tongue, sincere in a way that frightened her. She'd deflected it with a joke about her pension, but later, lying alone in bed, she'd traced the memory of his gaze on her skin like a phantom touch.

Now she tossed the vitamin back without water, dry and bitter.

Barnaby meowed, insistent. Martha set down the bottle and reached for his food. Maybe this was an ending, or maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop being the person who accepted things as they were. Dick could take his restructure and shove it. David could be called. And for the first time in years, Martha didn't feel like a woman waiting for something to happen to her. She felt like the one who would make it happen.

The cat purred around her ankles, oblivious to revolution. Martha smiled, and for once, it reached her eyes.