It was a great day in W.H.O.ville, the sun was shining bright
And it looked like the Who were going to be alright
The market was up, and the president was “down”,
Every Who walked around without a single Who-frown.
But there was one soul that didn’t feel happy, it seemed,
That was Sam-I-Am, and he looked a bit green.

He’d just gotten back from a trip to Cancun,
Just a quick week of drinking, and chasing Who-poon.
But now that he was home, he just didn’t feel well,
“It might only be a cold, it’s just so hard to tell.”
So he went to the doctor to get diagnosed,
“Looks like this is a new virus, and you’re the first host!”

The Doctor called the news stations, “I’ve discovered swine flu!”
They liked H1N1 better, but they said, “That’ll do.”
The cameras lit up, and the words scrolled across
And the Who down in W.H.O.ville thought all would be lost.
They blocked off the churches and closed all the bars
And they screamed, “We’ll all die! Don’t you remember Who-Sars?”

Then reports started coming in of one Who that had died,
The Who-media said more (but I think that they lied)
But who was this one that had started the panic?
To make the Who freak out like they were on the Titanic?
A Who-Mexican baby in Texas, that’s all
But a casualty’s a casualty, no matter how small.

Then the Who Health Orginazation said the word “pandemic”
Most Who don’t know the difference between that and “antiseptic”
So the Who-medical centers were full to the gills
From healthy hypochondriacs trying to score pills.
They walked around with Who-masks, and Who-rubber gloves
Giving in to the paranoia the Who-media loves.
And, unbeknownst to most of the Who, they now say,
CNN’s stock point jumped three times that day

The Obama administration didn’t seem worried one bit
Hillary Clinton had had Mad Cow for years, and no one gave a Who-shit.
The Cheney-in-the-hat and Bush 1 and Bush 2
Didn’t seem to be scared like every other Who
The only ones in W.H.O.ville the swine fear didn’t hassle
Because their only weaknesses are quails and a pretzel

Then all of a sudden, it had jumped country lines,
14 countries had 1 case (but billions were fine)
Whogyptians came up with a foolproof plan,
They’d find and then kill every pig in the land.
The Who-Asians quarantine as many as they can
Thinking, “What the fuck is a Who-Mexican doing in Japan?”
At least they knew the Who-Queen of England would be ok
Her Iphone had an app that cured swine flu right away!

Every Who was worried about what would come next,
Someone said, “Phase six”, and the country was vexed.
One thought crept through every Who’s mind, and they shuddered,
The aftermath of this flu was too horrible to be uttered:

After every Who’s life down in W.H.O.ville was taken
Who-Muslims would rule, because they don’t eat bacon.
Who’s had just gotten comfortable under the Red, White, and Blue
But it turns out they’re fucked, ‘cause the pigs hate them too.

He is just asleep enough to know she is awake. Just relaxed enough to feel her tension. His breath is cautious, lingering exhalations, waiting to yield their rhythm to her concerns. Her breath is baited; a bright, dangling lure of passivity masking the barb of rejection. He isn’t biting. It doesn’t matter.

A king-size bed is so fucking vast when you’re lying next to someone you want to touch, but can’t. The chasm between two bodies seems infinite. But on this night, he thinks, the bed is small. Very small. So small, her every movement is an earthquake, her every sound a blaring horn in his ears. He wishes he had a bigger bed. Do they even make bigger beds? No, he wishes she weren’t here, in his bed, insulting him with her silence.

He wishes he had never woken up. The dream was so vivid, so indescribably specific. It had started in a coffee shop, and flitted through restaurants, bars, beaches, and long car rides before lingering in that hazy limbo between sleep and life where they lay with their arms around each other, their legs entwined. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like two years. It felt like thirty seconds. But now he is awake, and he suspects that she has been awake for some time. He is always irritated when she wakes up first, and doesn’t bother to shake him, to play with his ear lobe, to invite him into the morning with her. She always smiles, and says he looks cute when he’s sleeping, and she wants to let him rest. How long has she been awake this time? How much has she already accomplished while he was snuggled under the thick blanket of obliviousness? Now he is awake.

There is something between them, he realizes. Not emotionally, she now shows more fervor in snuggling the wall than she has with him in months. No, there is something physically occupying the space, and that is why the bed is so fucking small. It is a presence, a force; that part of the ether that has crossed over to lie between them and make this night much harder than it has to be. It has no name, no shape, no agenda. It is the ghost of love, the spirit of their past. Or maybe he’s just about to talk to himself for the eighth night in a row.

You still love me, says the ghost.

I have every right to, he mutters indignantly.

Love is not a right. Love is a curse God disguised with a bow. You will learn this in time.

Don’t patronize me. As long as you are here, I will love you.

And her?

She is not you anymore. She is gone.

So am I, very soon.

No, you will stay, long after her. You have to. You are the only proof of our time.

He firmly believes this. He has seen it lately, the degradation of purity. He looks at pictures, and all he sees is his current discomfort. He finds mementos from trips taken, days spent together, and he feels her apathetic distance in their forms. It is inescapable, the idea that things always were as they are at this moment. It is impossible, though his efforts have been limited, to see beyond tonight, and that is why it is true: their past has been infected by the present, and his only salvation is the external incarnation next to him, because he can’t feel it in himself any longer.

He wonders if the idea is weak, or crazy. She always says he is crazy, but in a good way. Oddly enough, tonight is the strongest he’s felt in a long time. No more waiting. Wondering. Guessing. No more avoidance. He isn’t planning a conversation, or a pointed display of indifference. It isn’t necessary. He knows he is right, he sees it in her.

The dormant heartbreak stirs, rolls onto her back, and makes certain (though she is “asleep”) to keep her face towards the wall. He waits for her deceptive, avoidant breath to slow, then tells the ghost to continue.

There is no proof of time. The past leaves, faster than we can forget it. Pictures, memories, they are like footprints on a beach. They tell no true story, and they are wiped clean by the waves of time.

You talk a lot.

I talk as much as you want, I am here as long as you need. But you cannot need me anymore.

When she is gone, I will have you, and I will not die.

That part of you is dead already.

One of you has to leave, but not you. She can go. This bed is too small for the three of us.

This bed is far too big for you and I.

So I’ll get a smaller bed.

But you won’t get a larger one for her?

The irony is palpable. This king-sized emotional wasteland was her idea. Before her, a full size bed was more than enough to accommodate his string of one-night-stands; space isn’t necessary when you don’t spend more than a few awkward moments side by side. He got a bigger bed for her, and look where it ended up. This, to him, is relationships in a nutshell. You make concessions, sacrifices, all for the sake of making room to allow someone into your life. Then, when it all turns to shit, what you’re left with is a void that gets larger and lonelier by the minute as, one by one, your memories and comfortable nostalgia walk out the door.

What was it that had drawn them together? What pivotal moment is he not remembering where he decided she was worth parting with his smaller, safer bed? That is the problem, he realizes. He can’t remember. He can’t think straight. Three hours ago, they came home from Game Night Thursday at her sister’s house. They had sex (the furthest thing from lovemaking so far), and she fell asleep before his breathing had even returned to normal. Not that anything is out of the ordinary. Nothing overt anyway. But for a good month and a half now, he has felt, no, he has known, that it is over. That she no longer loves him, and he hates her for it. He loathes what she has become, the false self-portrait he’s had to paint for her only to find that it is ending regardless. He doesn’t know why he knows it, he just does. It is her fault he feels alone, unloved, unappreciated. It is her denial. Her emotional drift. Her soulful absence that makes talking to an apparition more meaningful, more productive than waking her and simply asking why she doesn’t love him anymore.

He tries to smile when he asks the ghost: Remember that weekend on the Oregon coast? That was great.

I’m still there. You are not.

…And that day in the park, when…

There were many days in many parks, and I am still in each of them. You are not.

You’re a ghost, you’re not supposed to interrupt.

Isn’t that the truth.

What do you want?

I want nothing, what do you want?

To know that some part of this was real.

It was.

That’s not good enough.

It has to be.

Then why is it over?

If it wasn’t real, there would be no end, because there never was a beginning. For something to cease to exist, it must first exist.

None of this is my fault.

Then why are you so sure it’s hers?

Go to sleep. I need to think.

Think all you want, your thoughts don’t matter. Your feelings are irrelevant, your understanding is unnecessary. How you got here isn’t important. You are here.

Don’t you love me?

I am an interpretation, I cannot love you anymore than you feel I do, but that will not help you here. You have to let me leave.

You are my life.

Very soon, I will be your death. I am your past, I cannot be your future. You cannot survive on the vapors of a substantive void. I will watch her leave, and then I will watch you die, and then I will not exist.

He rolls over, carefully so as not to wake her. He thinks she might have an early meeting in the morning, but he isn’t sure, he hasn’t really been listening lately. He’s not entirely sure that she’s been saying anything. Silence has been their mediator for some time now.

He can’t stand that fucking ghost right now. He hates it for staying, and he wishes it would never leave. He hates it, but he envies it. Because tonight, it is the only thing in this bed that is at peace, and because in the morning it will be gone.

My name is Alex, and I am a drug addict.

I have been an addict for exactly four years, to the day.

I haven’t had a hit in six hours.

I haven’t needed one, I’m high as fuck.

I think I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours. Or maybe it’s three. Maybe I just woke up. Maybe I’m actually asleep right now. Do you ever get that feeling? That you’re asleep when you’re really awake, or awake when you’re really asleep? That shit is weird. I think it’s really been more like forty-eight hours. Yeah.

I can’t seem to sleep sometimes. I just go and go and go and go. Newton’s law: An object in motion will remain in motion until acted on by another force. Fucking Newton. Now there was a tweeker. What normal person has a fucking apple fall on his head, and comes up with gravity, or anything other than, ‘shit, I sat under the wrong fucking tree’? So many great minds in history where fucking addicts. But no one cares about that, if they contributed to society. As long as a junkie contributes to society, no one cares. They can be crazy, gay, violent, addicted, but when they paint something, or help people, or write a great book, everyone looks at their vices as fuel for the fire of genius. Van Gogh cut off his fucking ear for a chick, does anyone care? Fuck no, the dude could paint. Ernest Hemingway was probably addicted to opium, but he’s a brooding writer, so it’s ok. Roman Polanski tried to fucking kill someone, and they gave him a fucking Oscar. But when that guy on the corner asks you for change, he’s a worthless crackhead, right? Why is it ok for the goose, but not for the gander?

What the fuck was I talking about?

Apples?

How do you like them apples?

Good Will Hunting was a great fucking movie, can I tell you that right now? Robin Williams: a lot of hair, a lot of heart. Matt Damon is amazing. Ben Affleck is a douche. He is the anchor on the ship of Matt Damon’s career. Talk about holding someone back. Have you ever had a friend hold you back? I have.

One of my best friends, for years, was into this Christianity shit. We would get high and talk about Jesus and Satan and stuff. It was great, we were really expanding our minds, and I was on my fucking way to enlightenment. I came up with this theory, just go with me on this: God is evil. Get it? Seriously, just listen. God has to be evil. He created everything, right? If he created everything, he created evil. Nothing is beyond His control, nothing exists outside of Him. Therefore, either He is inherently evil, and his laws are arbitrary, or He is not all powerful, and evil is outside his control, and thus He is not worth worshipping. My friend didn’t like this one bit. He called me sacrilegious, and wrong, and wouldn’t follow me through that particular door. So I had to fucking cut him loose. I can’t stand closed-minded people. It didn’t really bother me though, cause he was just some guy on the train I had just met. I can’t even remember his name.

That’s what fucking drugs do, man. They fucking make it hard to remember shit. It’s no picnic, those great feelings when you’re high come with a price. I remember when I was shooting up, way back. I kept using the same fucking spot on my arm, and the shit just kept getting more infected. Then I got arrested, and had to get my arm amputated. I almost died. Or was that a movie?

Did you ever see Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? So fucking realistic. They trip balls the whole time, and I really thought I was there with them. And that scene, when Johnny Depp wakes up in the hotel room? Johnny Depp is an amazing actor, let me just say this really quick. Sure, Pirates of the Caribbean was a little “mainstream”, but he’s good in everything. Edward Scissorhands? Fucking great. Dead Man was a fucking trip. He’s just awesome. He was in this one movie, I forget the name, but he wakes up in a hotel room in galoshes, with a dinosaur tail strapped to his ass, and a tape recorder on his chest. It was great.

I have to carry a tape recorder. Sometimes it’s for my job, but usually, I just want to hear my ideas when I’m sober. You can’t remember shit well when you’re high, so I tape everything for later. I even tape my conversations with other people. You ever have a friend that always denies saying shit? I found a way around that. People hate it when they hear themselves saying shit they denied. People hate to be wrong.

Like those people who say that the world is getting worse? That it’s almost time for Armageddon? They are wrong, and won’t fucking hear otherwise. They want to be right, they want to be the ones who recognize all the fucked up shit, so that they can be acting like they’re better than the rest of the world when Jesus comes next Tuesday. They are fucking wrong. Take a goddamn history class. Read the bible. There has always been fucked up shit in the world. The only difference now? Mass media. When something awful happens in Germany, it doesn’t take us a year to find out from a traveling immigrant telling stories of the fatherland in a bar. We can find out in twenty minutes with fucking CNN and the internet. It’s not worse, we just know about more shit, and we think the world’s about to end. How the fuck are people so narcissistic? The world is fucking old.

I can’t take this sometimes. I can’t decide whether to go to sleep or take another hit. Usually, it’s another hit, but like I said, I’ve been up for like fifty-four hours. But what’s another six or seven, then?

Do you think it’s possible that sleep deprivation is actually good? Like we’ve only been told we need to sleep eight hours everyday? But if we stay awake for three days, maybe that’s how long our brain really takes to warm up, and we can tap into our unconscious, into the fucking universe. You think? And maybe the fatigue is just psychosomatic? Or we just can’t handle that much power yet?

I remember when I got addicted. That’s one thing that every addict always remembers, if they really think about it. It’s important to know, just in case. It was that fucking guy that came to my house, and freebased for the first time with me. It was a fucking trip, my parents were out of town. Then one of our other friends overdosed, and we fucking left him outside the hospital. Wait, was that another movie? Fuck.

Sometimes I feel like Superman. Not like I’m invincible, that’s not it. But like, I’m this crazy, strong, smart guy when I’m high, like I can do anything. Then all I have to do is put on a pair of glasses. I put on the glasses, and everyone sees a different person. I can fade in and out of everyday life, I can talk to you, I can be anyone, and you wouldn’t know I’m an addict, just because of the fucking glasses.

I get most of my drugs from work, now. These kids have unlimited access to it on the streets. Every now and then, I’ll score from one of them, and I feel a little bad about it, but I figure it doesn’t hurt them, and I’m helping them anyways, so why not? Maybe it’s not something a Youth Counselor should do, but I’m helping these kids figure out their lives, so it evens out. I told you that’s my job, right? That I’m a youth counselor? I think I did.

It had been four months since they last discussed the feelings between them, or lack thereof.  She had thought they were done with it; he had never even waned.

“When was it you closed the door on us?”  He felt mildly guilty putting her on the defensive right at the beginning, but he never had been good at articulating matters of the heart.

“The night we went out for my birthday.  I was so glad you were there, being together was still fresh, you were meeting my mom.  I tried to touch you, to captivate you, to prove to my mom that I was dating nice guys out here.  There was no one else I wanted to be there more than you.  When we left, our hug lingered.  I squeezed your hand, and let my face stay close to yours.  I wanted so badly for you to kiss me.  To let me know I wasn’t crazy in this.  That you were attracted to me, that you thought I was special.  But you did what you always did; what you still do: you just smiled and turned away.  My mom wouldn’t shut up about you in the car.  How she was glad I’d found such a nice boy that could stand me.  I kept thinking about all the girls you knew.  I didn’t feel special.  I didn’t think I ever would.  So I gave up on it and turned my efforts back to something familiar, something good, something that made me feel special when it was happening.  Anything to get my mind off of you.”

Every word sounded painful.  He knew she didn’t want to talk about this.  For a brief second, he considered stopping now and walking her home.  But he couldn’t.  He would never get up the nerve to do this again; it had to be now.

“Last time we talked like this, it killed me.  When I left your place, I didn’t want to see you ever again.  I knew every time I did, I would think of what a failure I was.  How much it hurt to not get something you want so fucking bad.  I couldn’t stay away though.  I cared about you too damn much.  I needed you in my life, needed your smile, your laugh.  No other girl in the world can make me genuinely happy just by being in the same room, or on the other end of a phone call.  That may not sound like a big deal to you, but it’s huge for me.  I don’t let myself get happy, or angry or sad for that matter.  I know you thought we were done with this, and I know that’s the way you want it.  I do realize, believe it or not, that you don’t feel a damn thing for me.  But I never stopped caring.  I suppose that’s redundant right now.  The important point is that I haven’t given up on the idea that you and I can be happy together.  I don’t know that I ever can.  Even more, I don’t understand why I have to.  Every moment we spend together, I’m happy, you’re happy.  When you’re not happy, you’re comfortable crying on my shoulder, ranting for an hour on work and your dad.  When I’m not happy…well, it’s different.  I’m never happy unless I’m with you.  Every time I hear the possibility of you moving back to Boston, or when I have any feeling that I’m losing you, I feel panicky, like my heart is racing.  You are so important to me.  I know we have things in our past, both of us, that make moving on hard.  You think holding on to John for three years is bad?  I’ve been holding on to my shit for the better part of a decade.  Just in the last couple years I’ve started looking at it, dissecting it, trying to make myself better.  Then you came along, and I wanted to be ok even more.  I’m trying baby, I really am.  I’ve been waiting until the perfect moment to tell you, when I could say all this in beautiful prose and poetry, make it vivid and real and unrefusable.  But I’m not there, and I don’t know when I’ll get there.  I needed to say something, to make you understand something.”

He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t look into her eyes.  He didn’t want to see the rejection, the stoic annoyance at the subject matter.  He tried to look into the water, into the sky, at the fucking In and Out wrapper ten feet to his right.  He saw her eyes everywhere; stars and waves mocked him, and the goddamn “John 3:16” stamp he knew was on that wrapper gave divine consent to it all.

“What is there to understand?  I told you, I don’t want a boyfriend right now.  I like hanging out with you, and I am happy when we’re together.  But it’s hard dealing with John, and it’s hard to let myself get close to someone when I know I’m leaving in a year.  I just don’t see the point.”

He didn’t know why that made him angry, it just did.  He wanted to scream at her, at the world.  What was it really standing in their way?  Was it another guy?  One who pulled the trigger, one she was attracted to?  She had been regularly happy the last few weeks, who was she fucking in the city?  Why do you think these things?  You know her, you know that’s not who she is, why can’t you just accept the fact that she doesn’t care about you? He had wanted to remain calm in this, but his anger now carried his words.

“Why can’t you just say it?  Why is it so fucking hard?  Because you think I’m gonna leave?  You think the idea hasn’t been blaring in my head this whole time?  You don’t care about me, you never did.  If that’s not true, then this is bullshit.  I fucking know you’re leaving in a year, I know it every second of every day.  But why can’t we spend that year being happy together?  I’d rather spend one fucking day being with you than another goddamn year without you.  You said yourself; you don’t know what’s going to happen in the next year, who you’ll meet, who will make you change your plans.  I don’t want my plans to change, but if I was going to change them for anyone, it’d be you.”

She moved…she actually moved away from him.  She scooted a few feet away, and made like she was going to get up.  He felt the tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath.  This was it; this was the end.  She had been slipping away from him for weeks, maybe months.  Now she was leaving forever, and all he had was the beach, the air that was getting colder by the second, and an animal style double double laughing at him.  He had to say something.

“It’s not my fucking fault, I can’t control who I care about.  You’re fucking perfect in every way.”

Her purse was on her shoulder now.  He expected, hoped, prayed she would linger, think twice about it.  She didn’t.  She was on her feet turning away as she spoke.

“Don’t you dare put this shit on me.  Things are hard enough for me here without  dealing with this every few months.  You deal with it; I can’t anymore.  I’ll call you when I need my stuff from your house.”

He didn’t even look at her as she walked away.  What had he expected?  Nothing, not a goddamn thing.  Something, anything, just not this.  He screamed now, straight from his crumbling heart, his detached soul.

“You think this changes anything?  You think walking away will make me change my mind?  I’m fucking in love with you, and I always will be.  You’ll never find anyone here who cares about you more, who’ll do more to make you happy.  You go as far away as you fucking need to, but I’ll still be in love with you.

She had turned the corner four words into it; she was gone.  Forever.  He realized it was cold now, very fucking cold.  The slight sound of the cars crossing the bridge crept into his head.  He stayed on that beach for hours, years, days.  He would never leave it, not even on the drive home, not in the next week.  He was going to burn down the next In and Out he saw.

Sometimes Mary wished she were.  Not in the suicidal, end it all on a post-it kind of wishing, just so she wouldn’t have to feel like everything in the world was her fault for two hours.  It was her fault her entire family and ex-husband had blacklisted her.  It was her fault her father had died “before his time”, since apparently he was a saint.  It was her fault her mother was even awake at 11.  It was her fault people were dying in Iraq.

The truth was, it probably was all her fault.  By the time she had come out of her depressed, medicated, uncaring trance, her family had given up trying, and her husband had already served her with papers and gotten engaged to a 24 year old blonde thing with a rather large stomach.  Her father had never been the same since the accident; he didn’t talk to her, or anyone for that matter.  His fourth stroke in as many months was his last; he hadn’t wanted her to visit after the second.  It was probably more her sisters’ decision, but it didn’t really matter.  And yes, it was her fault her mother was awake.  How could someone be expected to sleep when her husband of 35 years was dead and the only daughter with her life not on track had actually derailed the sane train?  The jury was still out on her involvement in Iraq.

The torturous contraption in her hand was on the fourth ring, two more and the machine would pick up.

“Hi mom.”

“Hello dear.  Sorry to call so late, I couldn’t sleep.  Thought I’d see what my baby girl was up to.”

“Oh nothing, just finishing up my last line of coke and washing it down with a bottle of Chianti, how was your day?”  The momentary silence made her smirk a little, but her mother never let things get to her so early in the conversation.

“Very funny darling, I hope it’s at least a good year.  How are the sessions going?”

Pause.  The therapy part of these little banters usually didn’t start so soon…she wanted something.  “They’re going fine, Doctor Phillips and I are making great progress.  He says I’ll be off the meds soon.”

“He said that a week ago, and the week before that.  Either he’s a shitty doctor, or you’re a bad liar…listen, sweetie…”  Here it came: Mary’s bluff had been called early in the game; the profanity was a tad bit premature; and now the question.

“…I was thinking of having a dinner party next Tuesday night.  Just me and your sisters, a few of my friends from church, you know, kind of a ladies night.  We would all love it if you came, Gwen hasn’t seen you in years, and her lovely son is recently single.”

There it was.  Bravo mother, you really played that one well.  Mary’s head started to hurt.  She hadn’t caught on in time.  The niceties, ignoring tasteless jokes, calling her a liar.  By this point in the conversation, she was feeling so shitty there was no way she was going to agree to a fucking bible thumping supper with her hateful sisters.  Her mother knew this, and as soon as Mary declined, it was again all her fault.  Every gesture would be resurrected, every kind word remembered, her mother had set her up to fail since hello, and she would feel like the Holy Virgin Mary for offering.

“I have to go mother, I’ve got another call.”

“At least think about it, will you?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t mean to hurl the phone into the wall, but she felt better for doing it.  Mary took another sip of her Chianti, wished she hadn’t been lying about the coke, and turned up the volume on the TV.  She didn’t know what she was watching, she didn’t care.  The warm blanket was the only comfort known to her as the couch accepted her weary body.  The bed down the hall hadn’t been unmade in weeks, the voice of Leno or Letterman usually carried her to sleep.  The conversation played over in her head, but pretty soon it blended with all the other ones, and she couldn’t think straight.  As her eyes fluttered closed, an obligatory apology crept into her brain.  Sorry about Iraq America, I’ll make it up to you.  Dinner Tuesday?

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.