Kole crushed the unopened package down into the overflowing trash can, wrinkling his nose at the rising scent of rotting takeout. His sneakers tracked crumbling autumn leaves across the dirty white carpet on his way to collapse on the ruined couch Jen had left behind. He clicked on the television to try to forget what the mail had brought, but the algorithm knew him too well.

 

“Life is hard at the best of times.”

 

A silky voiceover played while children raced around a suburban home, laughing, throwing spaghetti at the walls.

 

“Sometimes it’s too much to bear.”

 

The image faded to two adults, embracing and sobbing by a gravesite.

 

“Take a break. Take Anaesomia!”

 

A family laughed around a dinner table.

 

“Show up for your loved ones without having to be there.”

 

A cheery woman turned from the table to address the camera. “As a mother of four, I can’t just take a day off. My kids need me! But with Anaesomia, I can have a taste of the oblivion I crave, while they get the best possible version of their mom, too.”

 

“Oblivion,” Kole repeated. The word echoed around the empty room, littered with evidence of his latest mistake: A bare lightbulb hung sideways in a crushed lampshade, speckled with a few drops of blood. Gray down feathers spilled out of busted couch cushions.

 

All Jen’s fault. She never listened unless he made her. Now the hollow in his chest begged him to call her, to say or do anything to summon her back again.

 

“Side effects include memory dysfunction, personality changes, docility, erec—”

 

He clicked off the television and dug the pharmacy’s package from the trash. He washed the tiny white pill down with a cheap domestic, then pushed the can onto the crowded coffee table. Empties slid off and piled on the floor, filling the air with the smell of stale beer.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

In the space between two breaths, a moment of peace.

 

* * *

 

Sunshine glowed pink through his eyelids.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

Kole sat on a picnic blanket under the merciless summer sun. Jen gazed at him, smiling, her eyes dewy. Condensation sparkled on a wine bottle, surrounded by sweating cheeses and melting truffles. The corners of his mouth ached like he’d been grinning for hours.

 

“Do it again, Kole.” Jen giggled. “I want another picture of you down on one knee.”

 

The filthy apartment and autumn leaves were gone. In their place was glaring sunshine and swaying trees. The rich smell of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass was overwhelming, dizzying.

 

“What?”

 

Jen’s smile tightened. “You okay?”

 

He fumbled for his phone: June 14. Moments ago, it had been November.

 

“No,” he said. “I’m not okay. What the hell is this? A hallucination?”

 

“No, sweetie. Stop asking me that. This is very real.” Jen’s expression softened. “You must’ve accidentally missed a dose.” She plucked the bottle from his shirt pocket. A pill tumbled into her palm, landing in the crease of her heartline by her new ring.

 

“Who’s the lucky jerk?” He jabbed a finger at the diamond. Rage and bile rose in his throat.

 

The photographer standing nearby coughed, looking away.

 

“Kole’s funny sometimes.” Jen’s laugh was high and strained. “Remember, dear, you promised you’d never skip one. Let’s get back to our special day, okay?”

 

Memory, like a slap in the face. The mail-order pharmacy, the commercial. And then, flashes of some simp’s life. Going to therapy. Calling Jen, apologizing. Groveling. He full-body cringed at that ego-crushing image — that sniveling man couldn’t be him. Never.

 

“It’s a dealbreaker for me, Kole. I mean it.”

 

Jen leaned away from him; his heart dropped. Another flash: blood on the lampshade. The empty apartment.

 

The white pill was stark against the warm pink-brown of her palm. He took it.

 

* * *

 

He blinked again.

 

Jen cooed at someone’s baby, while he signed a birth certificate. And popped another pill.

 

A child’s arms were tight around his neck after the baseball game, her chubby cheeks dyed blue from cotton candy. Two pills, now.

 

Someone’s daughter drove his car away to college. Five pills at once.

 

He was living, but it wasn’t his life. His body was showing up, but he wasn’t actually there.

 

Probably for the best. For everyone else, anyway.

 

A fancy watch clicked around his wrist at a retirement party. For what job, he couldn’t say.

 

His arthritic knuckles ached as he built a porch swing for two.

 

* * *

 

He sat on a nicer couch, now, in a bigger house. Alone again. On the mantel was a ceramic urn, the same pink-brown as Jen’s open palm. The big-screen blared ads for Anaesomia, and the elegant glass coffee table held an empty decanter. Peaty Scotch ghosted through his nose, high and fleeting as smoke.

 

In his aged, gnarled hand was a pill bottle. In his mind were snatches of memory, effervescent as cotton candy, leaving a lingering taste like fake blue raspberry. Pure sweetness, no substance. A bellyache.

 

He tossed back another pill. Then another, then the bottle, all at once.

 

No more flashes after that.