Vitamins for Zombies

I'm taking my morning vitamin when I notice the cat staring at me again. Same spot by the kitchen window, watching nothing. Just like I watch nothing these days. The vitamin D pill sits heavy on my tongue - they say it helps with mood, with energy, with the hollow feeling that's been living in my chest since November.

The orange sits on the counter, already peeled, segments weeping onto the cutting board. She used to peel them for me. Never broke the skin, always pulled it away in one long spiral, leaving the fruit pristine underneath. I try to mimic the motion and fail, my fingers fumbling, juice sticky on my palms. The cat looks away, unimpressed.

I'm not living anymore. I'm what comes after. Not undead - that would imply some animation, some spark. I'm just... continuing. A zombie who remembers how to make coffee, how to shower, how to show up at work and nod at the appropriate moments. My coworkers ask how I'm doing and I say "fine" and they believe it because that's what zombies do - they pass.

The hat sits on the hook by the door. Her favorite. Gray wool with a slightly bent brim from that time she wore it to the beach and wouldn't take it off even when we went swimming. I haven't touched it since she died. Some days I think it's watching me.

The cat jumps onto the counter, sniffs the orange segments. I push him away gently. "Not for you," I say, speaking for the first time today. My voice sounds strange in the empty kitchen. She would have laughed at that. Would have made some joke about the cat's refined palate, about how we're serving citrus now, about how domestic we've become.

I eat the orange. It's too sour. Tears prick my eyes and I tell myself it's just the acid, just the sudden sharp taste.

The vitamin bottle says take with food. I swallow the pill with a mouthful of orange segments and juice, swallow it all down with the memory of her hands on my shoulders, her breath against my neck, her voice saying "you're not alone, you're not alone."

The cat meows. I look up. For a second, I think I see her in the doorway. Same gray hat on her head, same smile. But it's just the light hitting the dust motes. Just my brain refusing to accept what's true.

I'm a zombie, yes. But today, I ate an orange. Today, I took my vitamins. Today, I might even touch the hat.

Small steps. Small, bitter steps toward whatever comes next.