Not Seeking Sympathy
He isn’t seeking sympathy, why would he?
He isn’t seeking sympathy, why would he? He isn’t alone on Valentines Day. He is enjoying a glass of rum, and how many people can do that? For one, the stuff is too damn expensive if you’re going to properly indulge yourself. And for two, most that properly indulge have a shoddy liver. So, considering that, if you ask Sean he has it pretty good today because his liver is fine and the bottle’s half full.
There are no records of Dean Martin bleating a song about amore and there’s no fancy dinner cooking in the oven. It’s raining outside, the dog crapped on the floor, Sean hasn’t showered yet, he has too few cigarettes, and the electric company cut the lights in the apartment. His scene seems cliché; he’s following in the footsteps of thousands of hopeless romantics before him.
Right now, he’s sitting on the couch in his stained bathrobe, staring into a flickering candle set on the coffee table. His dog is lying on the black carpet and the rain is blowing through an open window behind him. Fifteen seconds ago he picked up the phone and told her not to bother coming because he was drunk and he knew they’d get in a fight, but she was coming anyway.
He just opened the door and now sees her beaming face and suddenly everything becomes alright because, if someone can love him in the deepest depths of his depression, how could he ever seek sympathy?
