For a full week, Jim rehearsed how he’d break up with Lainie. I’m just so unsettled. My business is in a rocky place. You deserve someone who can buy you a nice dinner. The words came easy, but he experimented with tone. Compassion could signal hope, and aloof was too passive. Authoritative, though, that was convincing, irrefutable even. Authoritative was facts.

He’d wait till she drank some wine, soften her edges, and then launch into his speech. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Lainie. She was thoughtful to a fault, always quick to bring him coffee in bed or fold his laundry without prompting. Six months ago, this seemed like the greatest thing: the most coddling girl in all of New York, happy to spend weekends holed up in his railroad apartment, watching obscure English detective series from the 70s. She’d inevitably fall asleep a quarter way through, an endearing trait at first, until guilt clawed into his thoughts.

–  The world does not revolve around you (his college girlfriend, long ago).

–  Could you be any more selfish (his older brother, fairly often).

So Jim would tell Lainie to choose a program. “Something that won’t put you to sleep,” he joked.

“I’m fine with whatever,” she said. “I’m just happy to be here with you.” And she did seem happy, her winsome hum drifting through the kitchen as they cooked Saturday dinner together. They’d sit on the couch, balancing bowls of pasta on their laps, polishing off one bottle after another, and she’d laugh as he mocked the meatheads at the gym, the trust fund babies taking over Greenpoint, his upstairs neighbor and her five cats. He replayed her laughter those long days working from home building websites, or the longer days waiting for work to come in. She could hold her liquor, and that was admirable, too.

But the guilt never subsided. “Don’t you want to sleep over?” she asked, coiling a strip of hair around her finger, every Tuesday after 2-for-1 bourbons and tater tots at their regular bar. The drunken part did, but somehow, he knew to obey his small inner voice, the one that warned of how she’d cling the following morning, those damn heart emojis she’d send throughout the day. Lainie needed a guy who’d reply with the kissing emoji, maybe the heart-eye emoji for good measure. Jim was a thumbs-up emoji guy, and that was about it.

“You know I hate that morning rush hour crowd bullshit,” he said each time. He kissed her apologetically on the lips before stumbling to the subway. Surely, she was tired of weekly tater tots and going home alone. He knew he was tired of hating himself.

********************

Jim’s phone buzzed with Lainie’s ETA: ten minutes. Every Friday night, she dragged her work tote, a purse and an overnight bag, large enough for a week’s worth of clothes, from her gleaming midtown office to the E, transferred to the G, stopped at the bougie wine shop around the corner where she selected two bottles he was fairly certain he couldn’t afford, and then, even after an inevitable delay on one of the two trains, rang Jim’s buzzer at precisely 8:08. She’d launch into all the indignities of her day as an underappreciated project manager. He’d tell her that’s why he said fuck that, why he chose to leave corporate life and start his own thing. She’d just sigh and say maybe they should open one of those bottles.

Jim stretched overhead. A sharp twinge sent shocks, and he immediately dropped his arms. Earlier that week, he got suckered into helping an old drinking buddy move and tweaked his back. Didn’t seem like a big deal at first, nothing an old hot water bottle couldn’t solve, but now all he felt were twittering nerves and tightening muscles. He always prefaced Lainie’s arrival with five minutes of push-ups and crunches, a toning regimen some actor swore by before photos shoots. Tonight, Jim could barely walk.

The last time he felt this level of physical discomfort was his wide receiver days in high school. On another Friday night, many moons ago, a safety from a rival town pummeled him so hard, he thought it was the grim fucking reaper demanding he open his eyes instead of the coach. Same difference, he decided, after getting grief for quitting the squad, although he expected as much from a man who took such lip-smacking relish in sucking dry the flimsy confidence of teenage boys. Not surprisingly, his parents, old friends with the coach from their own high school days, all relics of that same hopeless town, took the coach’s side.

–  But, Jimbo, you’re such a star athlete (his miserable father).

–  But, Jimbo, you’re so popular on the team (his desperate mother).

“Knock it off,” said his grandfather. “If Jim doesn’t want to play football, then that’s it, end of discussion.”

But it wasn’t end of discussion, at least not in Jim’s house. His mother, the local dance instructor, waxed about Jim’s balletic leaps in the end zone. His father, middle management to the core, bemoaned how no other receiver in the county, the state, boasted Jim’s shiftiness and catch radius. Scouts woulda feasted, Jim often heard him say to his mother’s murmurings about all that lovely potential, lost and ruined.

Jim escaped to his grandfather’s house, where they talked history and woodworking. Sometimes he’d even watch his grandfather in the woodshop shed, a privilege his grandfather didn’t grant just anyone. He attempted some projects too, a basic pallet crate, a box with hinged lid, but he was doing it more for his grandfather than himself, and his grandfather knew this.

“This doesn’t have to be your thing,” said his grandfather. “You’ll find yours.”

With no football scholarship, a long shot as far as Jim was concerned anyway, he took on multiple part-time jobs throughout college. At first, survival was his goal, but survival was the enemy of passion, so Jim began experimenting, an astronomy class, a drawing elective, Italian cooking, courtesy of Marcella Hazan. He met Jennifer at a poetry reading and dragged her to chamber orchestra concerts, plays produced by local troupes, even college football games, in case nostalgia stirred up some interest in sports journalism or photography (a defensive tackle’s gruesome ACL tear put that idea to rest).

He called his grandfather nightly, to report on everything he learned and saw, an exhibition of shimmering Klimts, a lecture on 18Th century botany. Steadily, their chats grew odd and disjointed. This was Jim’s fault, he knew, for overloading the old man with too much data, Sonja Knips, the Rafflesia arnoldii, or maybe the false enthusiasm he practiced on someone who preached authenticity before it was cool. “Just be the best you you can be,” his grandfather repeated, a phrase Jim recalled from their woodshop days. It simultaneously made him want to punch someone in the face and cry.

Jennifer grew tired of his “ADHD tendencies,” as she called it. “Can’t we just get a six-pack and stay in for a change?” Funnily enough, after they broke up, he began participating less, going to fewer events. He never considered Jennifer critical to his mission, but she’d sure made it more fun.

********************

Jim rested his hand on his lower back, muttering his breakup speech as he trudged to the bathroom. His financial woes shouldn’t come as a surprise. It was embarrassing enough that he couldn’t take Lainie on a proper date; now, this past week, he canceled his gym membership and sold a few crates of records.

He opened his medicine cabinet. There on the top shelf, tucked behind a tube of anti-fungal cream (another good reason not to go to the gym anymore; wearing flip-flops in the shower was downright demoralizing) was a gift from the gods: Vicodin, sweet, beautiful Vicodin, squirreled away after a painful, and painfully costly, molar extraction last year. How he hadn’t attacked that bottle at the time was beyond him and something he chalked up to a higher power. He’d been making his way through the remainder of the prescription, ever since he realized the hot water bottle wasn’t going to cut it.

Jim stooped to wash down a pill from cupped hands. This was a mistake; straightening up was hard. He stared at his reflection as he toweled his face. At 38, his body felt ancient, but at least he still looked good. The last girl he saw, before Lainie, was shocked he was a day older than 32. That relationship lasted only a few months. Blake wanted $20 mezcal cocktails and a date for all her friends’ birthday dinners. She got the message quickly.

She sure liked dating a high school football star, though. All the girls did, the literary ones who claimed to have never watched a Super Bowl in their life, the marketing girls who did watch it, but just for the commercials. One girl said she liked it, ironically, and another found it charming, even though Jim hadn’t picked up a football in over two decades. He could see the visible shift in Jennifer’s body language when he brought it up over beers, after the poetry reading, and she was as artsy as they came. “Wow, you really were something,” she said, eyes shining in admiration, when she found his album of newspaper clippings the next morning.

Jim considered another pill, but he couldn’t risk a cloudy mind, so he rehearsed some more. You need a guy who can take you out for Wagyu burgers, omakase. Aren’t you tired of always buying the wine? Aren’t you tired of my shitty apartment? Lainie recently suggested a weekend away, and he’d bring that up too. Don’t let your world revolve around me (credit: Jennifer).

********************

Jim flinched at the buzzer. Its sound lost its brightness months ago, something Jim’s super was yet to fix, so that when anyone held it a beat too long, it had the scratchy screech of a barn owl. He zipped his oversized hoodie and silently counted to five before pressing the intercom.

He unlocked the door so Lainie could let herself in and positioned himself on the fraying couch. That buddy he helped move had mentioned his girlfriend might need a new site for her jewelry design business, but a quick email check confirmed she was yet to contact him, naturally. He set his phone on the coffee table and traced the grain of the oak. His grandfather built it; it was one of the last things he made before working with a blade was considered too great a “hazard.” Jim waxed and buffed it three times a year.

He heard a loud sigh as bags rustled and bottles clanked outside his door. His inner voice told him to stay on the couch. Do not extend kindness. He regretted taking the pill so late; it wouldn’t kick in for another 20 minutes.

Lainie stepped inside, flustered and red. “Didn’t you hear me struggle?” She held two of those ubiquitous wine bags, black plastic with gold stripes, her bulging duffel and three oversized totes by her feet.

He was taken aback by her accusatory tone. “I didn’t think opening a door would be hard. You managed to get in the building okay.”  They stood there looking at each other, until finally he said, “Here, lemme take these.”

“Thanks.” She sounded calmer as she dragged in the other bags, all of which looked they weighed more than she did. He never quite understood this phenomenon. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, she was usually planted on his couch, content in his boxers, a sight he’d begrudgingly miss next weekend.

“Jesus,” he said, grimacing. “Did you buy four bottles?”

“I know, it’s excessive. But—” she trailed.

“Gotcha.” He tried to hide his limp as he brought the wine to the kitchen; the last thing he needed was her pity. He opened whichever bottle lined up closest to him and grabbed two water-spotted glasses. He wondered, as he brought the wine and glasses to the couch, if she’d let him keep the leftover bottles. After he politely escorted her out, his plan was to exorcise any remaining guilt with the one expensive bottle of Scotch he hid above the refrigerator, a gift from a friend of a friend whose band website he helped build, and expired opioids. The extra wine couldn’t hurt.

“Ah, the Cab,” she said, as he poured the wine.

“You know it.”

“Perfect.” She took the glass and raised it to toast. “To Friday and a peaceful weekend with my Jimbo.”

He cringed at the nickname. Why did he ever let her read his mother’s Christmas card? “To Friday,” he said, as they clinked glasses. He took a quick sip. She took three vigorous swills.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s really nice.” She put the glass down on the table.

He cleared his throat and slipped a cork coaster under both their glasses. Lainie knew how much this table meant to him. “Yeah, you always bring the good stuff,” he said.

She nodded. “You know, they love me at that wine store. Whenever I walk in, they’re like, oh, it’s the Friday night girl, getting wine for the weekend.”

“What did they say tonight about your four bottles?”

“They were like, what, is there some blizzard brewing that we don’t know about?” She punctuated this with a quick laugh, a signature of hers, Jim noticed, when she felt extra insecure.

What would the wine store employees think when she didn’t show up next Friday? That she was sick? On vacation? Bludgeoned by heartbreak?  He offered a half-smile and almost choked on too large a gulp. “So plummy.”

She didn’t answer, and he used that time to study her. She’d shunned her usual skinny jeans and tailored blazer for a mini dress that hit well above her knees, paired with black opaque tights. He suddenly yearned to pull the dress over her head and strip her free from those stockings. Be strong. He cleared his throat again.

“So.”

She burst into tears.

“Lainie,” he began.

“How could this happen?” she said between sobs. “What am I supposed to do now?” She rubbed her slender fingers under her nose, coating them with stringy snot.

“But I—” His heart pounded violently, and his mind raced for a way to steer this conversation on track. How had she known? All his rehearsing, and he felt so ill-prepared. He pushed a box of tissues toward her.

She looked up at him. Broken streams of mascara trailed their way down her cheeks, and he had an aching desire to wipe them away with his thumbs. “I got let go today.” She finally took a tissue and cleaned her fingers.

He stared at her. “Huh?”

“Let go. Fired. They lost an account, and I lost my job. That’s why I have all this extra crap with me.” She gestured toward the pile of bags and blew her nose.

Stalling, he finished his wine and refilled both their glasses, careful not to spill a drop. He drank before she could toast. “Seemed like you were doing well there.”

She gave a wobbly sigh. “Yeah, well. I thought I was. But business is business. Sometimes even the good people get cut.”

“Right,” he said, rubbing his hands. He drank some more. “Yeah.” He looked down, but he could feel her eyes on him. He was supposed to move closer and offer a reassuring hug, reinforce her fine qualities as a project manager. Resist the urge.

“So,” she said, and he hated hearing the hurt, “what should we order for dinner?”

Dinner. That wasn’t the plan. Neither were the four bottles, certainly not the lay-off. “I’m not that hungry?”

She sniffled hard and blotted her eyes. “Listen,” she said, “I need to get drunk tonight. Really, truly obliterated. I woke up this morning employed, and now I have no job.”

You’ll be fine, he was supposed to say. You always land on your feet.

He said nothing, so she continued. “I can’t get wasted on an empty stomach, or I’ll puke all over your bathroom, and I like you too much to let that happen, so can we order food? Please? Maybe a vegan pizza, extra mushrooms?”

He hesitated. She didn’t eat dairy, and he didn’t eat meat. He would’ve given up cheese too, if he didn’t like it so much. Tomorrow, he’d order a real pie, real cheese. But for now, a vegan pizza did sound good. All he had that day was some toast at 11, and he could feel a hollowness grow deeper in the pit of his stomach.

Don’t let a little hunger derail your plan. “Soon,” he said. “Let’s just hang out for now.”

She looked like she was about to say something, but instead she finished her glass and served herself more, a pour so big and sloppy that wine sloshed above the rim. A few drops landed beyond the coaster, onto his table. “Sorry,” she said, before bowing her head into the glass.

He sat, fixated on the spill, then jumped up to grab a dishcloth from the kitchen. The sudden movement triggered a five-alarm fire in his back, but adrenaline, or sheer will, returned him to the spill in record time. He wiped it and eased himself back down. Sitting felt worse than standing.

Lainie had one hand wrapped around the stem of the glass, the other scrolling through her phone. “I’m getting some nice emails from friends at work. They can’t believe I was included in the layoffs.” She reached for the dishcloth and used it to wipe her runny nose. “Sorry,” she said, staring at him with eyes so despondent, he could feel a tiny piece of his heart crumble to powdery bits.

“You know what,” he said, “let’s order that pizza, it’s fine. You want that salad you like with it?” He began tapping their order.

“You’re so good to me. Yes, that sounds perfect.”

His body further tensed.

“You know,” she said, “I’m sorry. What a terrible girlfriend I am. I haven’t asked how your day has been.”

The word “girlfriend” reenergized him. “What’s wrong?” she asked as he stood.

“Gotta take a whiz,” he said, glass in hand. Under normal circumstances, Lainie would notice his gait, anyone would, but thank god she was glued to her email. He set his wine down on the bathroom counter and locked the door behind him. A throbbing back, and now an oncoming migraine. Shouldn’t that pill have kicked in yet? He doled out another one and chased it with the Cab. Who could focus on the script in such agony? I’m just so unsettled. Our timing is wrong. No. That was what he said to Blake. And Suzette. And Cassie, before her. 

–  This is a fucking waste of time (Jennifer again, after proclaiming the world didn’t revolve around him). She was a wise one, that Jennifer. No shit the world didn’t revolve around him.

–  You’re running out of time (his mother, in all her melodramatic glory, as his grandfather deteriorated).

–  Time doesn’t stop for you (so true, dad, so true).

He ran his tongue over the gap in the lower right of his mouth. He was surprised, once the nitrous oxide wore off, to feel such a strong sense of grief. But there, in the corner of his mouth, was actual death, a piece of him gone forever. Lainie recently offered to front the money for a dental implant, after he’d accidentally stabbed the exposed tissue with an almond, but he refused. The expense seemed unnecessary. No one could see the empty space.

This is a bad time, another time, I’ll try to find the time, he’d said to his parents. That was the first time his brother called him selfish. Would a selfish person have ordered dinner tonight? Would a selfish person suggest the salad?

“Why did you have to suggest the salad?” he asked his idiot reflection.

********************

Lainie sprawled on the couch, eyes closed. Her glass, and now the bottle, were empty. Jim surveyed the scene, zeroing in on a new spill. He grabbed another dishtowel, along with the bottle he just opened.

“Can I squeeze in here,” he said. She scooted back so he could sit, oblivious, it seemed, to his irritation as he wiped away the spill. He placed the empty Cab on the floor and filled her glass with the new bottle.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her a fresh pour. She noticed his empty glass. “How can we toast?”

“We don’t need to toast. Just drink.”

She arranged her lips in a pout that belonged in the Truffaut film during which she fell asleep last weekend. “But it’s bad luck.” 

He watched her pour his wine, those delicate wrists, and a wave of softness flowed over his inner voice. He said an obligatory “to us” as they clinked glasses.

“Mmm, the Zin.” He nodded, though he hadn’t bothered reading the label again. “Do you remember this dress?” Her voice shifted to hopeful.

No, he didn’t, but he told her it was very pretty.

“Really? You don’t remember it? I wore this on our first date.”          

He’d meant to take down his dating profile, he always did, but Lainie reached out before he had the chance. They exchanged a few bland emails, then met for a drink. He suggested the tater tot bar, and they proceeded to get exceedingly, mind-blazingly intoxicated. Hours later, they stumbled their way to a corner bodega, where they bought a bag each of BBQ potato chips and Jalapeño Cheetos. They sat on a nearby stoop and ripped into the bags, passing them back and forth, exchanging sloppy orange powdered kisses in between chews. It was all he could do to not whisk her home, but his inner voice shrilled through the haze to wait, and he always listened to his inner voice. So, he flagged her a taxi, relieved when she refused his cab money. Three nights later they went out again, a Friday. His inner voice had nothing to say when she spent not only the night, but the entire weekend. And that was that. The beginning and the end.

She was still waiting for some form of acknowledgment. He nodded and closed his eyes, hoping it would enhance the rushes of relief coursing through his veins. Electric pings detonated in his back, but it was just a matter of minutes before those washed away.

He felt her weight shift on the couch as she swung her legs over his lap. “You know, I got really sick that night. Did I ever tell you that?”

“What?” he said, eyes still closed.

“After our first date. I puked for like an hour. Must have been the cheese, I don’t know what I was thinking scarfing down those Cheetos.”

His eyes snapped open. “Lainie,” he said, “I seriously doubt you puked because you ate some cheese-flavored powder. You drank like half a liter of bourbon.”

“Hardly!” she said, laughing. She scooted back and shoved him in the hip with her heel. It was a light hit, not particularly rough, but it caught him by surprise, and he reacted with an awkward twist of his torso.

“What the fuck, Lainie.” He rose, unable to fully stand, stuck somewhere between stooped and accursed.

“What?” She sounded freaked out. “I’m sorry, I was just playing around. Did I hurt you?”

“Just—just stop talking a second, okay? I just need it to be quiet.”

Without a word, she jumped off the couch and bolted for the bathroom.

He willed away his regret as he drank more Zin. He needed a new strategy. Her circumstances changed, and so must his script. He’d take her hand, stroke it gently. Explain that now, with her layoff, it was the perfect opportunity for her to cement some contacts, get a good little freelance business going and, take it from experience, that required breathing room, no stale obligations or negative energy to hold her back. He was, sadly, both those things.

There was no time to rehearse this, but he sensed it called for a different tone, not authoritative per se, but encouraging. Maybe her layoff was a gift. It could make setting her free seem considerate, heroic even. Hell, she’d probably thank him for it. He inhaled deep, down into his lower back, and, bone by bone, readjusted his posture.

A few minutes later, Lainie emerged from the bathroom, eyes red, expression forlorn. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said in a small voice.

“Oh, Lainie,” he said. “I know.”         

The barn owl screeched, and he gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. Stay the course. Don’t provoke more tears. Eat, drink, break up. Done. He buzzed up the delivery guy and stuck his head in the hallway.

“I’ll get plates and napkins,” she called from the kitchen. He could hear her hum.

The delivery guy trudged up the stairs. “Thanks, man,” Jim said, averting eye contact. He left a low tip online when he placed the order, and he couldn’t deal with any more guilt.

“Yep,” the delivery guy muttered, shoving the food in Jim’s arms.

“Hey, you have a good night.” A snarky edge crept into Jim’s voice. “Asshole,” he said under his breath. He slammed the door with his elbow.

“What happened?” Lainie asked, running into the living room.

“Nothing, nothing, the guy was a dick. Might not order from that place for a while.” He bent down to set the food on the coffee table and groaned as he stood upright.

“What’s going on, Jimbo? Something’s not right.” Her voice was a pillow, and if he didn’t find his inner voice, he might let himself rest his head on it.

“It’s fine. Just tweaked my back helping Ryan move. It’s no big deal.”

“No,” Lainie said, firm. “You sit down, take it easy, drink some wine. Here’s your glass.”

He downed it with a ferocity he didn’t recognize and stretched out. There, there it was again. That singular warmth. It embraced his lower back, smothering the tightness, the twitching, and he could feel himself floating, off the sofa, through the ceiling, above the city lights. Inhale into the diaphragm, exhale cleansed. One slice, and then he’d do it. Maybe he’d start with an anecdote about how he made the switch, shucking the rat race for a life of pure, inexorable freedom.

–  But, Jim, you’re on track for a promotion (his lying supervisor).

–  But, Jim, they love you here (his delusional officemate).

“Knock it off,” his grandfather would have said, “if Jim doesn’t want to be a corporate slave, then that’s it, end of discussion.”

Lainie returned and plated him a slice of pizza. She was about to serve him some salad when he protested. “No salad,” he said.

“Jimbo,” she chided him, “just eat a little for me. You need to take care of yourself right now.”

He was about to argue her failed logic that eating salad would heal his back, but he didn’t have the strength. “Yeah, okay. You mind refilling my glass, too?”

“Of course not,” she said, refilling both of theirs. “See, we’re just about done with the Zin. Good thing I brought two more, huh?”

He nodded as he bit into a slice. The sauce was tangy, the mushrooms meaty, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the melding flavors, the surging release. A light peck on his cheek shook him out of his reprieve.

Lainie giggled. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist! You looked so cute, all smiley and relaxed. You’ve seemed stressed all night. It’s nice to see you happy.”

He nodded as he chewed. “You know what? Lemme grab another bottle, I’ll be right back.”

“Jim!” she said. “I’ll get it, you stay put.”

He gave her a knowing shrug. “No can do, Lainie,” he said. “I gotta stay mobile so I stay loose. I’ve had this thing before. Eat.” He headed straight toward the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He was finally feeling good, the sedation, the warmth, but his new break-up plan called for no moments of weakness, and that mini dress, those slender hands, her unabashed willingness to please him, were throwing him off.

“Go forth and prosper!” he whispered to the mirror, then snorted at the absurdity of those words. Too graduation speech-y.

He dumped a pill into his palm and tried to swallow it without water, like they did on TV. It got stuck in his throat, and he gagged on the chemical chalkiness. He tried again, swallowing harder, and it went down rocky and cumbersome.

The aftertaste shook him out of his silliness, and he whispered more phrases. You can do so much better. I’m no good for you. There. This was the best script yet. Who was he to make career suggestions when his was a wasteland?

–  Mom is sick. You need to come home (Michael, Monday morning).

–  Get your selfish ass on a plane, and come home (Michael, last night).

Now, that was authoritative. That’s what Jim needed to channel for his breakup spiel.

Jim had sat in silence after yesterday’s call, not sure how to process its urgency. Michael, the dutiful son who never left Ohio. Michael, married with three kids and a fourth on the way. Jim met the two oldest, both girls, the one time Michael and his family visited New York. That was when Michael told him about the plodding afternoons he spent with their grandfather after his diagnosis, and that he always called Michael “Jim.” Jim knew he was supposed to apologize for his glaring absence, for skipping the funeral. Instead, he instructed the girls to look up and catch a glimpse of the Empire State Building’s spire.

But there was no silence, not with Michael’s words looping in his head, so he’d flicked through his remaining records, until he remembered he sold his first pressing of “Pastel Blues,” and that sunk him deeper in despair. At least it covered next month’s automated donation to the Alzheimer’s Association, a tribute he set up back in his steady paycheck days and an expense he believed shouldn’t be sacrificed just because he teetered on the edge of broke.

He’d considered popping a pill, but he’d been careful to ration them since his back flared up, and his inner voice told him to save enough for the next night, the breakup, because that promised more pain, the pain of another failed relationship, of openly admitting he wasn’t enough. So he’d lain on the scratched-up hardwood floor, hugging knees to chest. He’d stayed rolled-up like that for an hour, his mom’s impassioned “you’re running out of time” morphing into Michael’s “you’re a waste of time,” which, come to think of it, sounded an awful lot like Jennifer’s “this is a fucking waste of time.” His father once called him a “waste of space;” that was, by far, the worst.

Jim splashed water on his face and swallowed one more pill, for good measure. Time to rejoin Lainie, have a drink and rip the band-aid. “Don’t waste your time on me,” he’d say, echoing them all.

********************

Jim grabbed the corkscrew and the two remaining bottles from the kitchen counter, then immediately regretted it. If he left the last one behind, she might have lost count and forgotten it was there.

“Both bottles,” she said. “Okay. Shall we open the—Malbec?”

“Yeah, whatever.” He inspected the salad she snuck onto his plate. “A lotta onions, don’t you think?” He took another slice and, in one giant bite, devoured half of it.

“Sorry, I should have picked them out for you,” she said. “But I guess it’s good you’ve got your appetite. Right?” She poured him another generous fill.

“Irrelevant, Lainie.” He shoved the rest of the slice into his mouth. “Calories won’t fix my back.”

“Okay, well, at least you’re keeping up your strength. That’s all I meant.” She filled her glass, once again, to the brim. He was relieved to see that, this time, she didn’t spill any. “Such an amateur pour,” she said with her quick laugh.

She pitched her head toward the glass and wrapped her lips around the rim. He closed his eyes, listening to her dainty slurps, and when she stopped, he imagined grabbing the glass, pulling her head back, and pouring it into her mouth, wine dribbling down her chin, gliding over her neck, her throat, staining the front of her dress, dripping, dripping down, pooling on her lap, in that soft space of her dress that caved in between her thighs.

“Jimbo?” he heard her say. He wasn’t ready to open his eyes. This felt too good.

“Lainie, we have to talk.” His voice was thick, unfamiliar. Was he even speaking? “I just need to tell you something, Lainie. Come, come closer.” He patted the couch clumsily. His eyelids barely fluttered open, but he could make out her expression, an unyielding look of anxiety. He preferred the image of wine gliding past her throat.

She slid over and snuggled next to him. “I think I drank too much.”

Fly little bird. “No, no you didn’t. Let’s finish this wine. Let’s talk.” The acidic bite would wake him, free him from any lingering haziness, so he could finish this portion of the night, so taxing, such a burden, this whole thing, and they could both move on. He wriggled out of her hold and refilled his glass. It was water, air, it was nothing.

“Whoa,” Lainie said. “Slow down, maybe. I’m the one who lost her job today, not you.” No quick laugh.

He poured the remaining contents of the bottle into her glass. “Now you,” he said. “Finish, and we’ll talk.”

“I’m—I’m good,” she said, pushing away the glass. “I don’t think I can drink any more.”

“Whatsa matter?” he said. “You’re the one who wanted to get obliterated. Wasn’t that the word you used? Let’s toast. Let’s toast to you losing your job. Let’s toast to your freedom. C’mon, drink.”

She looked confused. “Maybe we should just close our eyes again. We’re both tired.”

“Lainie,” he said. “Lainie, listen to me. This is your time. Drink, Lainie, drink. We’re celebrating here.” He reached for her glass and, rather than hand it to her, brought it to his lips instead. “Like this, see?” He got two-thirds of the way through, then set it before her. “There, see? I practically finished it for you. You just gotta drink that and then we’ll open the the Pinot-whatever. We’ll celebrate your freedom.”

“It’s hard to celebrate getting fired.”

“No, no, hang on.” He finished the rest of the glass and reached for the fourth bottle. “Let’s open this baby.” He jerked the blade too hard as he chopped at the label, and it sliced into his hand. “Motherfucker,” he said, examining the nick.

“You were comatose like a minute ago. Why don’t we just save this bottle for tomorrow night and go to sleep?”

Did she sound annoyed? Something was off in her voice. Who was she to be annoyed with him? If anything, he should be annoyed with her for the layoff, the dinner, the wrench she carelessly flung into his plan, maybe even the exacerbation of his back pain too, who knew? “There is no tomorrow night, Lainie. I’m breaking up with you. I’m setting you free. I wanted to tell you sooner, but you were so goddamn intent on getting dinner. Here, open the bottle for me, and we’ll toast to your freedom. I’m no good, Lainie, no good. C’mon, let’s toast. You wanted to toast before, right? Let’s toast.” He handed her the corkscrew.

She dropped it on the table with a solid thud and stared at him, pale. “Can you just stop? I don’t know what you’re saying.” She buried her head in her hands, her bony shoulders convulsing.

Why was she choosing tonight, of all nights, to be so ornery, so difficult? They were always on the same page. He closed his eyes again, an attempt to realign his jumbled thoughts like a commander his platoon, but his brain was a windstorm and words flew out of reach. In their place grew a flower, red and speckled like a strawberry. It was the Rafflesia arnoldii, or corpse flower, the one thing he retained from his botany lecture long ago. He watched it expand, the flower’s mammoth petals, his tentacled guilt. The flower was most known for its size, measuring a whopping three-and-a-half feet across, but it was its stench, like decaying flesh, that drew Jim. The rot attracted pollinators, just like his rot attracted the Jennifers and Blakes and Lainies of the world. It withered after a week, but thanks to its pollinators, a new one would sprout, and grow, and spread, and stink.

“Lainie—” was all he could say. Something something freedom or finances or waste of time or waste of space.

“You’re dumping me. First my job, now you.” Her hands muffled her voice.

“I’m doing the right thing.” There, that was it. “I’m a good guy.”

“You just told me you’re no good.” She finally looked up and shook her head. “I thought we were building something.”

Building something. “The best thing you can do for society,” his grandfather said in his woodshop, “is build something. Build a chair so your friend can sit. Build a relationship so you’re not alone. Just build.”

So he did. He would lug his laptop to his grandfather’s house whenever he was home from college and proudly show him the first websites he built, crude and rudimentary, but live, up and running. “I finally found my thing,” he said, to little recognition. They’d sit and eat his grandfather’s famous blueberry pancakes, the same ones Jim had eaten every Sunday since he was four, and he would try to explain, in simple terms, the purpose, the possibilities attached to this burgeoning digital world.

At first, he thought maybe his grandfather kept repeating the same questions because he couldn’t keep up, because the technology was so foreign. It wasn’t until he arrived one morning to catch his grandfather standing at the stove, staring baffled at the pan, that Jim felt an uneasy twinge. “Do you know how to make them?” his grandfather asked, and Jim, blinking back tears, forced a smile and nodded. That was the last time he saw his grandfather.

“Jimbo?” she whispered.

“You think we’re building something?” he said, his fingers stretched taut around the bottle. “I’m trying to tell you, but you’re not listening to me, Lainie. I don’t build. I destroy. I destroy, Lainie. See?” He stood up and shoved the plates and glasses and pizza box to the floor. Ignoring her shriek, he raised the bottle above his head and smashed it as hard as he could against the table. The neck, where he held it, stayed intact, but the body shattered resplendently. Large purple shards lay dully on the table, while smaller fragments flew across the room, curved and sharp. Splinters glittered in the shadows like tiny weapons. The wine flooded out, rushing onto his table, big puddles that would burrow deep into the wood, despite his last wax, staining it crimson, no, aubergine. A long scratch snaked across the wood’s surface. He picked up a shard in wonder.

“Who are you?” she screamed.

Still examining the shard, he said, “This is the best me I can be, Lainie. This is the best me.” He couldn’t bear it anymore. He dropped the glass and staggered off toward his bedroom, where he collapsed onto his bed, shuddering into the blanket.

Just a few minutes of rest, that’s all he needed, and then they’d sort through this mess, together, and he’d say the correct things, and she’d be grateful, happy. They’d laugh about how right he was all along, this whole time, how she’d be better off without him, they all were, and if he hadn’t shattered that fourth bottle of wine, the Pinotage, that was the name of it, they’d have toasted to “not us.” There’d be one more kiss, one final kiss, and then she would press herself into him, hungry for one last memory, a keepsake, and he’d reach under her dress, inside her tights, and she’d tell him how much she’d miss this, miss him, and he would whisper in her ear to just melt into the moment, to just be his girl, his sweet girl, before they parted ways.

When he woke, he was surprised to see he was still on top of his covers and the light shone brightly from the other room. He reached for his phone, bleary eyed, and squinted at the glowing numbers. It was almost four in the morning.

“Lainie?” What was she doing out there? “Come to bed, Lain.” He looked around for his glass of water. He always brought a glass of water to bed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He forced it free and licked the filmy surface on his teeth, landing in the gap.

Then it dawned on him the crying, the anguish and, wait, something else, something else happened too. It didn’t matter. All he could focus on was this hurting, the honeyed numbness from wine and pills spent. He sat up slowly, groaning from the sledgehammer in his head, the hysteria in his spine, an inextinguishable fire that raged like a maniac, and he wrapped his arms around himself, gently rocking in place, thinking how nice it would be to have someone there to care for him, to fetch him some water and another pill, to make him coffee in the morning, to butter his toast, to share in the misery of a Saturday hangover, preferably someone with a meaningful, thoughtful touch, preferably someone with slender hands.