Them.

He was a hero without anyone to save, a coward without anything to confront, a life without a purpose. If he didn't try so hard to be happy, he might've had an okay life, but due to years of Hollywood films and classic literature he believed a man’s worth is based on his physical accomplishments.

He had purchased a gun, hoping to find some solace in his ability to kill something, but he didn’t. Of the three times he had fired the weapon, none had made him feel anything other than contempt. He purchased a scotch decanter set, but that sat in the corner of his apartment consistently full. His Armani suits turned heads when he walked down the street, but he was always more comfortable in jeans.

He is broken. Some part of his mind, the masculine part, must not have properly developed. He doesn't enjoy sports, classic rock, or large slabs of meat. He used to blame his intelligence. He thought of those things as barbaric, and he was civilized. That’s why he owns expensive suits, drinks expensive scotch, and drives an expensive car. But last night as he drove home in his $250,000 car, wearing a $3,000 suit, and drinking a $40 glass of scotch, he realized he was empty. He should have been ecstatic, but all he could think about was running his car into the ocean and being done with it all.

 He always thought “If I ever have a family, things will be better.” He used to think “when.” Hope is such a fragile thing.

The night prior to this one had hurt him. It was strange for him. His consistent apathy had been the one grounding force in his life. Something he could hold on to and remind himself he didn't need to care. He had been told by a dozen different women that he was a “dick,” or self-centered. One had said he was impossible to argue with. He didn't understand why that was a bad thing. He just looked down and didn't watch her leave.

All these women had come and gone without so much as a response from him. He’d consider being sad or angry, but in the end he simply chose not to be. They had their reasons, they were warranted, and he was used to being alone anyway. But this girl was different. This girl somehow managed to take whatever insignificant heart he had and shatter it. 

They had started dating a number of weeks ago. She was nice and seemed to get a kick out of his emotional detachment.  She liked that he didn't feel the need to express himself, that he was comfortable in silence. They were so miserably happy together.

Their relationship proceeded down the typical course. They spent plenty of time together. Between watching movies neither of them enjoyed and not talking, they were almost inseparable.

She was a waitress. She always said that pretending to be friendly eight hours a day was exhausting. That always almost made him smile. When they were together it was a storm of angst and indifference. It began as complaints about others. The driver who didn’t signal, the concession worker who wore too much make-up, the dog without a leash. But, eventually, her attention turned to him. He never left enough coffee in the morning, he splashed toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, and his jeans were too tattered.

He didn't care. Long ago he had convinced himself that words from other people are meaningless. She could yell at him for the most trivial of things and he wouldn't even bat an eye. He would just wait till he was sure she was finished and then redundantly ask her “are you finished?” She'd then always smile and say “yes, dear.” True love.

Their break-up was inevitable, they both knew it. Eventually they would get bored of each other and go their separate ways. The only question was how? How would it happen? Would he simply ignore her calls and hope she stops trying? Would she scream at him for drinking all the milk and storm out? The longer the two of them were together; the potential of the breakup grew exponentially.

It was a Tuesday morning after a long weekend. She had been staying over the last week while her apartment was being fumigated. The week was a haze. Never should these two people spend that much time together. By this time, they had both realized this. When he awoke that morning, he was alone. His apartment was empty. Her and her stuff had left early. He fell back asleep.

A couple hours later he woke up again. She was still missing. He wandered aimlessly around the apartment before approaching the refrigerator. He removed the orange juice and poured himself a glass. It was upon the returning of the juice that he noticed a note attached to the fridge door. It simply said “don’t call me.” He smiled, crumpled the note, and placed it in the trash.

A week past and he never even considered calling her. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed loneliness. The simple pleasure of silence, of no conversation other than a constant inner-monologue, of no need for a cell phone. For that one week, he was at peace.

She texted him on the following Wednesday. Her text startled him as his phone had been silent for days. As he read the four-word text he immediately wished he hadn't. “We need to talk,” was all that was written.

...............................................................................................................................

He wakes up lost in a sea of nausea and shame. His leather couch sticks to his face as he peels himself off and stumbles to the bathroom. He dry-heaves, carefully avoiding the vomit stained floor mat. He washes his face before heading to the kitchen. Shards of broken glass puncturing his feet as he walks towards the fridge. As he pours himself a glass of orange juice his mind wanders to what could have been. Sure, he didn't like her, but he doesn't like anyone. They could've made it work. Things would've been better. If only she had given them a chance.