The playlist I used to keep me company while I did the dishes failed to perk me up. I ruminate on smoky bars and loud music and loneliness that somehow seemed heroic, long past, while I separate the recyclables into paper or plastic and bag them up for tomorrow.
"I'm melancholy," I say to Katie as I scoot the cat over and climb into bed.
She circles around to my side of the bed and lays down next to the diapered dog, saying, "Well, I'm no expert, but maybe it's 'cause you're tired?"
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