As the door closes behind him, I slump lower into the couch, relieved. Lying back, I blink at the stucco ceiling. My body feels heavier than it should. My breathing is too slow, my heart rate sluggish. The television is on. Aggressive Japanese voices intrude my thoughts, but the remote is too far away from me to do anything about it.
My responsibilities rise up in a whirling storm of anxiety. Term papers, grocery lists, laundry detergent, bills; they launch themselves at me, demanding my attention. I bat them each aside, feeling a band of exhaustion constricting my chest. Apathy, that deadly gray blanket, wraps itself around me, snug as grave clothes.
My phone vibrates. I don't reach for it, too weary to engage in any sort of social interaction. After a minute it falls silent again.
Empty hours pass. The ceiling fades from white to blue to gray. I hear the door open. A voice calls "Hey, baby."
"Hey," I say, forcing color into my voice. "Sorry, I didn't make dinner." And I am sorry. Sorry that I couldn't be bothered to do something even for him.
"It's okay," he says, poking his head into the room. "You need a day off every once in awhile."
I smile at him, and then look back at the ceiling.
