"It has nothing to do with your damn leg," she snaps. He smiles mirthlessly:  It's the first true thing she's said today. Two hours later the only reminder of her presence is that god-awful green and gold sofa she fell in love with at a boutique in Philadelphia.  Makers Mark mixes with Vicodin, and he thinks she could have at least left her cigaretteshes conceited enough to think she wont need them anymore. It will be Wilson who finds him passed out at the piano, fingers still in place on the keyboard, the B-flat pressing hard into his cheek. * It has nothing to do with his leg. It has everything to do with his leg. Shes always known about the drugs, of course.  It's an uncommon thing for doctors, and even he cant avoid the cliché. Since the first night, shes known about the drugs.  Shes never been okay with the drugs, but they dull his edge and make living with him that much more bearable. Besides, God knows she has more than her fair share of self-destructive habits.  Shes never considered herself a hypocrite, so she lets it go. It might have something to do with the drugs. * Misery is never an attractive thing.   They both know this, and they've always lived teetering on the edge, using each other to stay just on the right side of things.  They're perfectly matched.  They're terrible for each other.   Shes learned to see through his bullshit, and he's the only person in the world who's ever known her.  When the bourbon and pills have cleared his system, hes left with the ever-dutiful Wilson.  Wilson is a constant.   She doesnt have a Wilson, and he wonders if shes left with anyone at all.  Its the last thing he thinks before he comes. * Three in the morning, and the pounding at her door only exacerbates the pounding in her head.  Still a little drunk, robe tied around her waist, and he's standing on the porch.  He hands her flowers, then Tylenol 3.  She lets him in, he turns on her stereo. Hours later she falls asleep on her couch.  He picks the robe off the floor and lays it over her. They both know a couple of aspirin would have been enough to kill the headache.  They both know the headache was an excuse. It's always had something to do with the drugs. * "She'll be back," he says, and even he doesn't believe it. The statement is met with silent pity.   In the last six months he's seen so much fucking pity that he's almost stopped caring that's it's the most selfishly ingenuine of human emotions. Pityand the first time he said this she accused him of being a terrible cynicis nothing more than the lie that masks relief.  God, Pity says. At least Im not that pathetic. He fucking hates the constant hypocrisy. "Rebecca likes the couch, right?" he says.  "Take it.  It's a fucking eyesore." Acceptance is never a direct thing. * They both work too much, drink too much, talk too much, think too much. They find excuses to fight, the desire to win to be right always at the forefront.  Some couples end their arguments with hurried makeup sex, as if sex solves anything everything.  As if sex cures.   Theyre not like that. Arguments end only when one of them is right, and sex is a weapon, a tool of distraction.  Their fights last for days and sex does little more than add fuel to the fire. He makes her a better lawyer. They never fight about anything that matters. * She'd call him a pig for it, but God, he misses the sex. At first he thought it was just sex he missed, but hes blown a thousand bucks on hookers this month and is still itching for relief.  This depresses him more than her absence, more than his pain, more than the fucking sofa that Wilsons wife doesnt want after all. Sex has always been a constant.  Power, reward, celebration, weapon, apology.  Shed call him a pig for it, but shed understand better than anyone.  He misses the sex. Wilson becomes his substitute, and so everything comes full circle. * No one whos met him thinks badly of her for leaving.  Her mother met him once before she died.  Her mother hated him and didnt hesitate tell her why, a laundry list of faults. Hes cold, impossible, unloving, unstable, even.  If heavens exists, then her mother must have been eating her words in the weeks after the funeral. Hed never believe her, but she doesn't hate him, even now.  Hating him would make it easier. She doesnt hate him. She still calls James to chat, to keep up.  If he were capable of it, James would think badly of her. * She was too good for him. Hes a misanthropic son-of-a-bitch, and now hes a cripple to boot. He would wallow, but Wilson wont let him.  Wilsons a good little wife, and neither of them seem to care that hes a terrible husband.  Rebecca fades into the background and for a little while, everything is as it was. Then something is said or done and Wilsons moving in with Julie and nothing is constant anymore. Years start to blur, and the phone rings and its a friend of a friend of a colleague and at work, at least, hes not alone. * She never thought shed get married. White isnt her color, and shes never been a fan of elaborate ceremonies, but shes been married for three years and shes absolutely certain that her husband is dying. Her friends tell her shes being paranoid, and maybe she is. Shes right though, and even if shes wrong, shes more inclined to credit it to morbid curiosity. She schedules dinner with James to call in a five-year-old favor.  He refuses, and feels morally superior for it. Two more specialists and another bullshit non-diagnosis later, she screws up her courage. Nothing and everything is different.