The Vitamins We Swallow

Elena stood at the kitchen counter, crushing her daily vitamin supplements into a glass of water. The ritual had become compulsive. Beside her, a wilted bag of spinach sat forgotten.

Michael came home late again, smelling of chlorine. His swimming sessions at the club had increased lately—two hours, three times a week. He said it was for his back.

"How was the pool?" she asked, not turning around.

"Good. You should come sometime."

She turned to face him, really seeing him for the first time in months. His shoulders were broader, his frame leaner. But it was his eyes that frightened her now: they had the clarity of someone who's made a decision.

While Michael showered, Elena checked his phone. The messages were innocent on the surface—arrangements for tennis, discussions about stocks. But there was a pattern to the communications that made her chest constrict. References to places they'd never been together.

The baseball championship played on the television in the background—Elena's father's favorite sport. Michael had pretended to care about baseball when they'd first started dating. He'd given up the pretense years ago.

Elena found herself washing that forgotten spinach, chopping it finely, sautéing it with garlic. When Michael came downstairs, he stopped in the doorway.

"That smells good."

"Sit down," she said. "I made dinner."

They ate in silence. The spinach was perfectly seasoned. Michael ate with the enthusiasm of a man who's hungry, who doesn't realize he's being served his last meal.

"You've been meeting someone," Elena said when the plates were empty.

Michael didn't flinch. "It's not what you think. She handles certain things for me. For us."

The spy metaphor flashed through Elena's mind. But then she realized.

"Financial," she said. "You're in trouble."

Michael nodded. "I wanted to protect you from it."

The vitamin dissolved completely in the glass now. Elena stood up and began clearing the table, her movements precise.

"You should have told me," she said. "We could have shared the weight."

"I thought I was being noble," he said softly. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"I wanted you," she said. "Just you. In all your mess."

She paused at the sink, watching the water run. The baseball game ended in the background—someone had won, someone had lost.

"I'm tired," she said finally. "Let's sleep. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

And because this was what marriage was—this endless swimming against currents you couldn't see—she went to bed beside him, and for the first time in months, she let herself believe they might still make it to shore.