The Wellness We Make

Elena smoothed the triangular packet of **spinach** between her palms, the plastic crinkling in the silence of their kitchen. Marcus was already at the table, empty stomach growling, his eyes fixed on the space where she should have been putting the eggs.

"You forgot the **vitamin** D again," he said, not looking up. "It's right there on the counter."

She'd forgotten. She'd forgotten a lot of things lately—his mother's birthday, the oil change, the way they used to talk about something other than macros and cortisone levels and whether this supplement was backed by "real science" or just "influencer science."

"I'm meeting Sarah for **padel** at noon," she said instead of apologizing. Her voice sounded thin, like it had to travel through water to reach him.

Marcus finally looked at her. His eyes had that particular exhaustion she'd come to recognize—the kind that settled in when you realized your marriage had become a series of preventive health measures rather than an actual life. "You hate padel. You hated it last week when you played, and the week before that."

"It's good for my core."

"Everything is good for your core, Elena. Padel is good for your core. Spinach is good for your core. That powdered mushroom coffee is good for your core." He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm not sure what's good for us anymore."

The spinach packet slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the counter. Outside, the sky was that particularly relentless blue that made you feel like you were the only one not living your best life. She thought about Sarah—divorced at 38, now living in a studio apartment with a dog named Olive, posting photos of her morning matcha drinks like they were evidence of survival.

"I'm trying," Elena said. "I'm trying so hard to keep us from getting sick. From getting old. From—"

"We're already old, Elena. That ship sailed. The question is whether we're going to be old together or old separately."

He walked out without taking his **vitamin**. The spinach sat on the counter, slowly warming to room temperature, and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd cooked something because she wanted to, rather than because it was on the approved list.

She picked up her phone and texted Sarah: *Actually, can't make padel today.*

Then she texted Marcus: *I'm making carbonara for dinner. Real carbonara. With all the yolks.*

His reply came instantly: *I'll pick up wine.*