The Vitamin Deficiency
The padel court reflected the morning sun like a judgment mirror. At forty-two, Elena's knees clicked every time she pivoted for a backhand. Her partner from accounting—twenty-five, bright-eyed, and metabolically blessed—smashed the ball past her again.
"You okay, Elena?"
"Fine," she lied, wiping sweat from her forehead. The vitamin D supplements sat in her kitchen cabinet, a daily reminder that her body no longer performed basic functions without assistance.
Later, in her office on the thirty-second floor, she stared at the corporate pyramid chart on her monitor. Her name appeared in the middle tier, stuck between ambitious juniors nipping at her heels and executives who'd forgotten what actual work looked like. Her boss had called it "career plateau" in his performance review—corporate speak for "you're not hungry enough anymore."
She wasn't hungry. She was tired.
Her sister's cat, now residing in Elena's apartment after the divorce, wound between her legs. Sphinx—named for the riddle, not the Egyptian monument—stared up with yellow eyes that seemed to say: *This mouse could die of old age before you catch it.*
"What do you know?" Elena muttered, scratching behind his ears. "You sleep eighteen hours a day and nobody calls you unmotivated."
The phone buzzed. Another invitation to padel, another vitamin regime recommendation from a coworker, another reminder about the company-wide meeting where they'd restructure the pyramid—again.
Elena opened her desk drawer and found the business card from the gallery owner who'd loved her paintings. The ones she made at 2 AM when insomnia and existential dread collided with canvas.
Sphinx jumped onto her desk and knocked over a stack of quarterly reports.
"You know what?" she said to the cat. "Fuck the pyramid."
She packed her things. The vitamins could wait. The padel court would still be there tomorrow. But tonight, she had paint under her fingernails for the first time in three years, and for once, her future felt like a canvas instead of a spreadsheet.