The Vitamins of Regret

Arthur swallowed the vitamin D pill with a glass of tepid water, watching the morning light struggle through his apartment's grimy window. At forty-seven, he'd started measuring his life in supplement regimens and cable news cycles.

"You're a fucking bull in a china shop, Arthur," his boss had screamed yesterday, after Arthur accidentally deleted the quarterly report. The irony wasn't lost on him—Arthur had never felt like a bull. He felt more like the china.

The elevator to his apartment building had been broken for three months. Each morning, Arthur descended seven flights of stairs, his knees protesting, his hand sliding down theslick cable railing that had grown smooth from decades of desperate hands. Sometimes he imagined himself slipping, falling endlessly through the building's dark throat.

Tonight, something snapped. Maybe it was the vitamins—his friend Sarah swore they were just expensive urine, but Arthur had hoped for transformation. Maybe it was the way his reflection looked in the subway window: a man becoming water, spilling over the edges of his own container.

He didn't go home. Instead, Arthur found himself at the East River, watching the black water churn against the pylons. A couple argued nearby, their words whipped away by wind. Arthur thought about diving in—just stepping off the edge and letting the water take him, dissolve him into something else entirely.

"You okay, man?" A homeless guy asked, gesturing with a can of beer.

Arthur laughed. It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, wild and raw. "No," he said. "I really, really don't think I am."

The man nodded sagely. "Join the club. We've got cable."

They sat together on the bench as the city burned around them, and for the first time in years, Arthur didn't want to be anywhere else.