“I do,” said Erin in a tired voice.
Paul sustained his grin tensely.
“What do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul looking away.
“I know you don’t like it.”
“It’s. . just,” said Paul.
“I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.”
“No,” said Paul quietly.
“I have a gift card.”
“I thought your mom was buying you one for Christmas.”
“So did I,” said Erin.
On his mattress, on their sides, holding Erin from behind, Paul thought he wouldn’t end the relationship now, or at any time while Erin’s face, which after two and a half weeks looked like it had been recently stung by eight to twelve bees, was still healing, even if he knew he wanted to, which he didn’t.
But he wouldn’t not end the relationship now, if he knew he wanted to, because it would be pitying and misleading, which Erin wouldn’t want, based on what he knew, but maybe she wouldn’t care, if she didn’t know, which she wouldn’t. Paul thought that he would stop thinking about himself and focus on Erin, but instead, almost reflexively, as a method of therapy, began thinking about suicide, then became aware of himself, a few minutes later, earnestly considering — or maybe only imagining — trying to convince Erin that they should commit suicide together. After an initial, default “open-mindedness” they could easily become fixated, then would want to do it quickly, while it made sense. They would find information on the internet and hurry to a subway station, or wherever, collaborating intimately again, looking out at the world from a new and shared perspective. Paul began to feel, in a way he hadn’t before, like he comprehended double suicide — the free and mysterious activity of it, like a roller coaster descending only into darkness, but accessible from anywhere, on the theme park of Earth, always open.
He sensed his vicinity to a worldview — or a temporary configuration of preferences, two or three ideas introduced to a mood — in which double suicide would be as difficult, as illogical, to resist as a new sushi restaurant to a couple that likes sushi and trying new restaurants. He felt scared, and to distance himself from what he might accidentally engage in, or be absorbed by, in a moment of inattention or daydreaming, he opened his eyes and leveraged himself and looked over Erin’s shoulder with an extremely troubled expression. To his surprise — and self-consciously private confusion, relocated immediately away from the front of the face, to study later — she looked serene and was smiling a little, it seemed.
• • •
Three weeks later they were seated in Sunshine Cinema — at a showing of Somewhere that would begin in five minutes — and had ingested Xanax, which hadn’t taken effect, when Paul, staring at the screen, said in a monotone that he wanted to talk about their relationship. Immediately, in a sort of rush, which indicated to Paul that she wished she had said it first, an otherwise unfazed Erin said she also wanted to talk about their relationship. Paul said he felt bad about it, but didn’t know what to do, or what else to say. Erin said she felt the same. They talked, staring at the screen, during previews — mostly reiterating that they felt bad, didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what else to say — and stopped, when the movie began, without resolution.
At some point, the past two or three weeks, Paul had begun to imaginarily hear Erin quietly sobbing — whenever she was in a bathroom with the sink on, and sometimes when in bed, beside him — in a manner as if earnestly trying to suppress uncontrollable crying, not like she was crying for attention, or allowing herself to cry. He would concentrate on discerning if the crying was real, and would become convinced, to a large degree, every time, that it was, despite learning, every time — seeing, to his consistent surprise, a friendly expression mostly — that it was not.
Paul became aware of himself staring, “transfixed,” at the center of the screen, with increasing intensity and no thoughts. He focused on resisting whatever force was preventing him from moving his head or neck or eyeballs until finally — suddenly, it seemed — he calmly turned his head a little and asked if Erin was bored.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I can’t tell,” said Paul. “Are you?”
“Maybe a little. Do you want to go?”
“Yeah,” said Paul, and slowly stood.
• • •
On the L train Paul held Erin in a way that her head and upper body were on his lap, but her legs remained as if she were sitting upright, aware he was doing this — was holding her head to his lap — to mitigate pressures to talk to, or look at, each other. Erin sat up, at some point, and Paul began to speak, in vague continuation of their conversation before the movie, slowly and mostly incomprehensibly, unsure what he was trying to say. Gradually, by focusing on what he’d already said, in the past ten to twenty seconds, he learned that he seemed to be trying to convey that both he and Erin were depressed, which he realized they both already knew. He only felt motivated to say anything at all because he was on Xanax, he knew, and remembered he had Ambien in his pocket and shared one, then another, with Erin, who had sat up, then became aware of himself trying to passive-aggressively convey something by directly saying he wanted to feel pressured to concurrently be a depressed writer and fashion model.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Erin.
“I just feel. . depressed,” said Paul, and weakly grinned.
“Is there anything I can do to make you feel less depressed?”
“I don’t think so,” said Paul. “You’re depressed.”
“What can I do, at this point, to help our relationship?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul feeling that he was more expressing himself than answering a question, and they got off the train.
“Anything at all,” said Erin in a hollow voice.
“I don’t want to tell anyone what to do,” said Paul staring ahead.
“You wouldn’t be. You’d just be answering my question.”
• • •
In Sel De Mer, a seafood restaurant four blocks from Paul’s apartment, seated at the bar, Erin asked if Paul wanted more Xanax and he said “shouldn’t we not ‘go overboard’?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had Ambien and Xanax.”
Erin appeared unresponsive.
“Never mind,” said Paul. “Yes. I want more.” After sharing 2mg Xanax, then ordering, he absently ate all the free bread and butter, and they sat staring ahead, not speaking or moving, until Erin said she felt weird.
“Me too. I don’t know what to say.”
“Let’s just stop fighting,” said Erin.
“Okay,” said Paul.
“Okay,” said Erin after a few seconds.
“Do you want more Xanax? I don’t feel that much.”
“Yeah,” said Erin, and they shared 2mg Xanax.
When Paul’s salad and clam chowder arrived he moved something fried from the salad, with a feeling of efficacy, into the soup, then ate it with a spoon. His steamed lobster with fries and Erin’s broiled monkfish with mesclun salad arrived. He ate his fries using all his butter and ketchup and, at her offer, most of Erin’s butter. “I feel better,” he murmured.
“What?”
“I feel better, due to Xanax, I think. How do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” said Erin. “Okay, I guess.”
At Paul’s apartment they drank green juice and showered, then performed oral sex on each other, showered again, turned off the light to sleep. Paul said they should be on Xanax all the time. Erin said “we’re probably ideal candidates for Xanax prescriptions.”