You turn your phone over, screen facing down. Orpheus with a backbone. It's better this way.

The pain isn't sharp anyway. If anything, it's a dull ache. This is the bartender's second attempt to make small talk with you. He will give up on you soon. In the corner, near the front of the room, a young woman is laughing, her hair thrown back, her face expressive and open. A young man watches her movements with undisguised tenderness, their hands barely touching.

The carpet is muted blue, faded from wear. You think—it's disgusting to have carpet in a bar.

It's not all bad. You're functional; your sleep schedule is getting better. You can't recollect your nightmares. The philodendron looks beautiful against your window. You went to a play last week.

He's cleaning the area by your finished drink. It's time to leave or have another.

This feeling will pass, won't it? You turn it over in your mind like a stone. It's just the time of year. It's just the buildup of small disappointments. It will wash away by spring. Won't it?

Go home, you think to yourself. It will be all right.