Suicidals Anonymous

"Oh fuck off. Who doesn't?"

She inhaled deep and looked away for a second. "I don't know. You do?"

"Holy shit. Every day. Literally every minute. Right fucking now. Listen, if you aren't considering killing yourself, you aren't fucking living."

"What does that even mean?"

I threw back the last of the gin and pulled my stool closer to the bar and kept my eyes locked to her. "Okay, life, we all want smiles and fucking bliss and love and contentment. Yes. I'm not some negative shit."

"Okay."

"Okay, but at the same time, we aren't fucking getting it."

She gave me a cocked eyebrow.

"You aren't. Don't give me that fucking look. You aren't. If you were, you wouldn't be here. No. It's all mostly shit, and sometimes, maybe, if we are extraordinarily lucky, we might get love. We might get bliss. We might get a sunday morning that feels soft and beautiful and perfect. But probably not. And it isn't our fault, of course, but it's such a fucking disappointment. You think back to every half assed relationship you've ever had, maybe the last date you went on and you thought 'why didn't he call me again', but you still throw his name around in your fantasies, it's all fucking horrible. And then someday, Eva, someday, you look up and there is nothing. You're old now. You've got your own fucking baggage. You're guarded and hurt and jaded and maybe someone would have loved you prior, but, now, what have you got? Scars. Fucking scars. So now, someone has to love you and your goddamned scars Eva!"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, people don't want fucking scars, Eva. They want new models, they want fresh off the lot. They want no hassle, all reward. So where does that leave you and me? Fucking nowhere. Shit out of luck. Alone. And you know what? It's most of us. I look around these fucking places... Look around. Look at these sad sacks of shit. Look!"

She looks around the bar and the worry never leaves her face.

"This is who we are now," I say. "There is nothing for us. Nothing as beautiful as young love. Nothing as satisfactory, nothing as pure, nothing as good. We are forever silver medalists at best. And the majority of us, fuck. This is where we are. You're goddamned right I think about stuffing a fucking gun down my throat. Well, not down my throat, point up, but you know what I mean. And you know what?"

"What?"

"There isn't a single fucking person in this shithole who doesn't have the same thought every goddamn night. Who doesn't quietly ask themselves if they should throw themselves in front of a fucking car or leap off the South Spier Bridge. All of us. Fucking suicide club."

"Maybe."

"No. Not maybe. It's true. So don't fucking tell me you thought you were considering it. This is fucking go time. This is the big leagues. This is goddamned suicidals anonymous. Do it or shut the fuck up, but don't act like one bad date is the end of the world. Fuck off. The point is, you can't feel so shitty without having felt equally as good at some point, right? So if you aren't suicidal once in a while, you've never known a bliss or whatever. Christ. Buy me a drink."

She bit her lip. "I think you're usually a pretty good guy."

"Great."

"What do you want?"

"Gin."