The Vitamin Protocol

Mark stood outside the padel court, sweat dripping down his spine, watching his colleagues through the glass. They moved with youthful aggression — swinging, lunging, laughing in ways that felt foreign to him at forty-seven. He should be in there. That was the point of these Thursday sessions: networking disguised as exercise, the unwritten rule that partnerships were forged between games, not during them.

His phone buzzed. Elena: 'We need to talk about the cat.' Again.

He looked at his palm — the lines seemed deeper somehow in the harsh fluorescent light of the club locker room. He'd started reading his own fortune out of boredom last month, a private joke that had stopped being funny. Life line short, love line fragmented. What did palmists call a midlife crisis?

The vitamin regimen had been Elena's idea two years ago. D3 for mood, B12 for energy, magnesium for sleep. He'd swallowed them dutifully each morning, a ritual of hope in capsule form. This morning he'd stared at the organizer and flushed them all.

'Running,' someone said behind him. Mark turned to see Lucas, the junior partner, stretching against the wall. 'You've been running mental laps all week. Everything good?'

'Fine,' Mark said. 'Just tired.'

'You should join us next week. Elena too. She's got quite a backhand.' Lucas grinned. 'Though I heard she might be transferring to the Berlin office.'

The words hit like a physical blow. Berlin. She hadn't mentioned Berlin.

Mark drove home in darkness. The cat — a neurotic Siamese named Balthazar Elena had rescued — sat by the window, watching for her. Mark had always found the cat annoying, its neediness excessive, its miaows demanding. Now he understood.

He flushed his vitamins. Packed his suitcase. Left the cat with enough food for three days.

Some people were meant to be alone. Some vitamins were placebos. Some palm lines were just skin.

Mark booked a ticket to Berlin. Some games, he decided, you play even when you're losing.