“Do you remember the last time you were happy?”

The question lingered as he took another gulp of his scotch, not so much to quench his thirst as to avoid answering.  It wasn’t as whimsical as she wanted him to think; it was accusatory.  It was a way to excuse her enduring state of misery, a way of resigning him to commiseration with her.

They had been coming to this bar twice a week for the last two months, and he had never noticed the color scheme on the walls until now.  Drab.  Dirty.  A sad shade of tan that had probably been white at some point, after the joint had first opened but before all the idealism had been sucked out of it.  Faded blue porpoise looking sketches lined the entire wall right above the molding, which seemed to be living up to the name.  It was all contrasted by the bar itself:  bright, old world wood with decent etchings around the baseboard.  Backlit with numerous angled bulbs, it was a beacon of stability in this side street shit-hole. It occurred to him that he’d never noticed before because she had always held his interest and complete attention.  He tried to remember the last time (was it last week, last month?) that he was captivated by those deep blue eyes, so full of experience and contemplation.  Now all he saw was stagnancy, painful complacency with an ache she refused to share with him.  He was growing tired of pretenses.

“I vaguely remember certain moments, with certain people, when I imagine I should have been happy.  It’s not my life though.  It’s like I watched it in a movie, and felt the exact emotions the scene was supposed to arouse.  I recall smiling at a stranger a few days ago.  I fell into a simple conversation over gas prices with someone behind me in the Starbucks line this morning.  I don’t so much remember times when I was happy as appreciate the times I wasn’t angry, or sad, or at the bottom of an empty bottle.  I don’t want you to be happy; I would never ask it of you.  All I want is for you to stop being so fucking depressed all the time.”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand…I don’t want to be with you, not like that.”

“You think I just wanted to get laid?  You think I…”

“I meant intimately.  You want disclosure; you want to know what could possibly be making me this fucking depressed.  I never intended to tell you, I don’t need your sympathy, or your understanding.  I just…”  She faltered, wondering if it was even worth a salvage attempt.  “…I just wanted to be around someone who knew what it was like to feel sad all the time.  You do don’t you?  Feel sad?”

“What the fuck do I have to be sad about?  Did I tell you I was sad?  I live in the fucking gray area which you refuse to acknowledge.  I’m not happy, I’m not sad; I live in the state of emotion where you don’t have to feel a fucking thing.  You should look into that sometime.”

He downed the rest of the scotch, retrieved a few bills from his wallet, and was halfway across the room before the liquid warmth had reached his belly.  She gazed down at her Long Island, stirring it absently.  “You’re even sadder than I am” she whispered loudly.  But he was already out the door.  She looked at the cash on the table, now damp from the condensation.  It was enough for both of their drinks and a decent tip.  Noble until the end, wasn’t he?  She fucking hated it.

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