Vitamin Z

The fluorescent lights hummed at a frequency only the dead could hear. Mark sat at his desk, thirty years of ambition reduced to a vitamin regimen and quarterly reports. He swallowed the orange gel cap—D3 for mood, B12 for energy—a daily communion with hope that something might change.

His wife Elena had left six months ago. 'You're like a goldfish in a bowl,' she'd said, packing her books. 'Swimming in circles, forgetting everything every seven seconds, and I'm the plastic castle you've stopped noticing.'

She was right. He couldn't remember breakfast.

His phone buzzed—his father, calling from the nursing home again.

'Son,' the old man's voice crackled, distant like a radio station losing frequency. 'I found the baseball cards. The Mantle rookie. It's in the shoebox under the bed.'

There was no shoebox. His father's mind was a zombie now, shuffling through memories it had already eaten, regurgitating fragments in an endless loop. The doctors called it dementia. Mark called it haunting.

'I'll look, Dad,' Mark said, not meaning it.

'You always were my catcher,' his father whispered. 'Always threw it back.'

The call ended. Mark stared at his reflection—gray hair thinning at the temples, eyes that had forgotten how to shine. On impulse, he drove to the pet store instead of home. Bought a comet goldfish, orange and flashing, and a small bowl.

He set it on the counter, watching it swim in patient circles.

'You and me both,' he said.

The fish surfaced, mouth opening in silent prayer.

Mark opened the vitamin bottle. Dry-swallowed two more than recommended, washed them down with whiskey. For the first time in months, he remembered something: Elena used to say they'd grow old together, her hair silver like his, watching the world change from the porch swing. She wanted to be a goldfish with him.

He texted her: 'I bought a fish.'

Three minutes passed. Then: 'Are you okay?'

Mark typed: 'I don't know.' Deleted it. Typed: 'No.' Deleted that too.

'He's beautiful,' he sent instead.

'Bring him over,' she wrote. 'I still have the bowl.'

The goldfish swam another circle. Mark's phone buzzed again—his father, probably. Or the office. Or the ghost of the life he used to have.

He stood up, grabbed the bowl, and walked out the door.