She buried her face in the pillow and closed her eyes so hard that her eyelashes quivered. You put your hand on the small of her back and she flinched. You didn't want to get pissed because you knew, but six months is a long time to try and not get pissed.
You took a few deep breaths and then went into your tiny kitchen with its miniature fridge and toy oven. The bourbon splashed the glass wet and you slammed it and the glass down hard. What the fuck? What the fuck? You knew about depression, but this was something else. Something beyond. This was thick, backwater swamp depression. This was muck and filth. You took another drink and then went back to the bedroom.
She was sitting up in bed, now, staring into the quagmire of depression's dressing. Piles of clothes. Plates of food. Ashtrays and butts everywhere. She took slow, even drags and exhaled into that small spot in front of her.
"Baby, are you OK? I mean, I know you're not OK. Can I help you? Will you talk to me?"
"Sarah, you're obviously not fine..."
You had two choices. You could trash the fucking apartment. Slash the mattress and thrift store couch. Punch holes in the walls. Bust out the windows. Or you could trash yourself. You stood up as calmly as you could.
"I'll be back in a few minutes."
She didn't respond, but you weren't surprised. What was there to say?
The bar down the street was busy, two games blaring. You sat in the dark corner and spent her money on liquor you didn't need. You tried not to look at yourself in the mirror behind the liquor. You didn't want to see whatever it was that she saw...or didn't see. You didn't want to see why she would stay out all those nights and stay in bed when she was home. You didn't want to see yourself as she saw you.
It ended soon after. In theory. In reality, it never ended, and you will always want to know whether she was fucking some other guy on the nights she didn't come home. Not that it mattered. Not that it didn't matter, either.
You did a lot of drinking after that. She continued her family's tradition of accumulating money by birthright. Pills fixed the angst. She was much nicer to her next boyfriend.
Ain't that rich?