text: "I know it sounds stupid," The man said. The bar wasn't busy, but he still had to raise his voice a little to compete with the clamor of small talk, 90's alternative, and Monday night football that filled the place. He took a shot of something clear and winced, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his crisp, blue linen shirt. "But I just don't feel the spark anymore." "The spark? Bullshit dude, life's not the fuckin' Notebook. How long you guys been together?" The bartender asked. "Ten years." She clicked her blood-red ballpoint a few times before sticking it in her shirt pocket, right below a nametag that read “Rebecca”, then grabbed an expensive-looking bottle of vodka from the shelf. She gestured toward it with her free hand. The man nodded his head in affirmation. “Ten years? Dude what do you think, it’s gonna be honeymoon shit forever? Do you love her?” "Yeah I love her, of course I love her. It's just that things aren't the same now, you know? We don't even talk anymore. At least when we used to argue, I felt something." He tapped on the rim of his beer glass anxiously while she poured him another shot. "I'm sorry, I know you're in here all the time. What was your name again?" "Tim." "Tim," She said teasingly, "Are you telling me you wish you and your girlfriend argued more?" "No, of course I don't want to argue more, but she gives me nothing. We never do anything. It's a hassle just getting her out of bed these days." Cheers erupted from the corner of the dim room, a small group of college students celebrating a touchdown. One of them stumbled to the bar and set his empty glass on the counter. He waved his hand to signal that he was ready for another. “One sec, hon.” Rebecca went to serve another cheap, watery pour from the complicated looking ten-tap beer tower at the other end of the bar. It’s getting late, Tim thought, looking at his watch. He wondered if his wife would be waiting for him to get home. She probably hasn’t noticed I’m not. "Maybe she's depressed. When I get depressed I don't feel like doing shit." Becky's voice cut into his thoughts as she reappeared in front of him. "I'm sure you shower, at least," Tim said, sardonically, "She doesn't even take care of herself anymore." "Did something happen? Someone die or something? Like, you said things used to be good, right?" "I wouldn't know if something did happen. She doesn't tell me anything anymore. But yeah, they were great. Really great. I’d do anything to get that version of her back, you know?" Becky’s gentle, rosy face took on an expression of grave seriousness. “Then what are you waiting for, man? Go get her.” Her expression broke and she launched into hysterics. “I’m sorry, dude, you set yourself up for it. I always wanted to say some dramatic shit like that," She said, dabbing away the tears that had been formed by her laughter and making an effort to gather her composure. “Seriously though man, you want my advice? Just talk to her. If things aren’t gonna work out then they’re not gonna work out, but you say you want it back, so just try,” This time, the look of seriousness was more genuine. “You say you work a lot, right? Maybe what you need to do is take a little time off and just be with her. Spend some time together." Tim looked at his drinks contemplatively. "See if you can find that ‘spark’.” Becky added, mockingly. "You're right, honestly. I haven't been the greatest partner either." "Not trying to bust your balls or anything, but think about it. You are literally sitting in a dive bar complaining that your marriage isn't fun anymore while your wife is at home by herself. Go fix it, dude." "Yeah when you put it like that, I do kinda sound like an asshole, huh?" He chased the vodka with the rest of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. "How much do I owe you?" He asked, putting on his black jacket. "Just gimme ten." He laid a twenty on the bar. "Thanks for being real with me." "Anytime bud. Good luck." Tim crossed his fingers in the air behind him as he pushed open the frosted glass door and walked out into the orange-pink glow of the setting sun. The soles of his oxfords clicked against the cracked sidewalk on his way to the old grey Buick, where he fumbled with the keys for a moment. He drove carefully and methodically, sober enough to know that he'd had too much to be behind the wheel of anything. The lights were off when he opened the door to the townhouse that he shared with his wife. He flipped the switch, bathing the room in bright white, and called out. "Honey?" There was no response. He took off his shoes and left them by the door, and hung up his coat. Flies whizzed past him as he made his way down the hall, loosening his tie. He swatted at one unfortunate insect who made the mistake of landing on him, splattering it's tiny body against his shoulder. Inside the bedroom, his wife lay facing away from the door, her stringy, matted hair beginning to fall out. "Hey sweetheart. Sorry I'm late," He said, gently. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the clothes basket. She didn't move as he crawled into bed next to her. Her blue, grey, and yellow skin was falling off in places, and maggots wriggled in the open wounds. "I've been thinking," Tim whispered into her decaying ear, "I love you, and I know things haven't been so great lately, but maybe that's my fault. How about I take next week off and we can spend some time together?" "I'd like that." He whispered back.