Vitamin D and Other Deficiencies
Marcus stood in the breakroom, staring at the fluorescent hum of the vending machine. His doctor had called yesterday—vitamin D deficiency, the latest in a cascade ofä¸å¹´ indignities. He'd stared at the orange pill bottle on his counter that morning, wondering when he'd become someone who needed supplements to function.
The water cooler bubbled behind him. Sarah from accounting was there, crying softly. Her cat had died. Barnaby. Seventeen years of companionship reduced to a veterinary receipt and a shoebox. Marcus patted her shoulder awkwardly, his own eyes suddenly stinging.
"It's just," she wiped her face, "he was there when David left. He was there when Mom died. Now what?"
Now what, indeed.
Back at his desk, Marcus's phone buzzed. His father, at the assisted living facility, wanted to know if the baseball game was on. The old man couldn't remember what he'd had for breakfast but could recall every statistic from the 1986 World Series. Marcus pictured him there, in that room smelling of disinfectant and decay, waiting for a son who visited once a month.
He opened his drawer. There was the vitamin bottle. There was a photo of his ex-wife on a beach, orange sunset behind her. There was his life, compressed into corporate beige plastic.
Marcus took three vitamins. He drank water from the fountain that tasted vaguely of copper. He watched Sarah carry her empty coffee mug back to her cubicle, her shoulders curved forward like someone expecting a blow.
The afternoon sun hit his window at an angle. For a moment, the ordinary cubicle was transformed—orange light painting everything gold. Somewhere, a cat was sleeping. Somewhere, a baseball arced toward home plate. Somewhere, someone was loving someone else.
Marcus took a deep breath. He called his father. He asked about the game.