The Vitamin Years

The water cooler hummed in the corner of the office, that persistent mechanical drone that had accompanied three decades of my career. I stared at Emma across the room, former friend and current adversary, her hand wrapped around a rainbow assortment of vitamin supplements that she downed with practiced precision every morning at nine. B12 for energy, D for mood, some expensive proprietary blend I couldn't afford.

"Still taking your horse pills, I see," I said, approaching her desk. The padel racket leaned against her filing cabinet, a reminder of our Saturday matches—ritualized combat disguised as exercise.

"Still bitter about the divorce?" she countered, not looking up from her spreadsheet.

The bull market had made us both wealthy, but it had made her cruel. She'd always been the one charging through obstacles, while I'd been the matador trying to redirect her energy without getting gored. Now we worked for the same firm again, senior analysts with overlapping territories, circling each other like animals in an arena.

Saturday's match had been brutal. She'd smashed every ball with unnecessary force, grunting with each shot, her face twisted in something that wasn't quite joy. Afterward, in the locker room, she'd stripped off her wet clothes and stood naked before the mirror, examining her body with clinical detachment.

"Look at us," she'd said, running her hands over the softening middle of her torso. "Fifty years old and still playing at being contenders."

I'd wanted to touch her shoulder, to offer comfort, but the years of petty betrayals and workplace betrayals stood between us like glass walls.

Now, back in the office, she finally met my eyes. "My doctor says the vitamins are placebo," she said, suddenly tired. "But I need to believe something's working. Don't you?"

I thought about the padel court, the sweat and competitive fury, the way we'd both pursued promotions and promotions' worth of validation while marriages dissolved and children grew distant. We were both taking something—her vitamins, my weekend warrior excesses—to convince ourselves we weren't hollow.

The water bubbled in the cooler. I poured two cups, slid one across her desk. "Nine o'clock Saturday?"

Emma smiled, something genuine breaking through the armor. "Same time. Don't think I'll go easy on you just because we're old."

She wouldn't. That was the point. The bull never stops charging; you just learn to dance better.