Apathy by Doc

                                                           
She had started by saying, “I think we have a problem.”  He had to agree.  She had a problem and therefore he had a one too – not the same one, but a problem nonetheless.  He didn’t like solving predicaments.  That wasn't one of his options.

“You don’t seem to ‘care’ very much.”  He had to agree.  Nothing much moved him emotionally lately.  It puzzled him that she would consider that important.  He did as she wished.  He then recalled the definition of problem that he had carefully hand-copied and put on a notecard, taped to his computer: “Problem: a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with and overcome.”

“Are you listening?,” she asked.  She was irritated.  He quickly nodded.  “Yes, Miss!”   He looked at her face and it was obvious she didn’t believe him.  He noted that she’d made to simple statements and that he’d heard both of them.  What was the comment about not listening implying?  The caution light in his head lit up, warning him not to even think of voicing that thought out loud!

“Well?”  She was asking a question, but he wasn't quite sure what he was expected to say.  He gave it a shot.  “I was listening, Miss.”  That seemed to mollify her.

“Do you agree?”  He nodded and said, “Yes, Miss.  We have a problem.”  His mind recalled key words.  Unwelcome.  Harmful.  Needing to be dealt with.  He added, “You don’t like my emotional flatness, Miss.  You don’t find it welcome.  You think it’s unacceptable.”  She nodded this time.  He breathed a mental sigh of relief.  He’d given the right answer.  He didn’t always – and then things really got unpleasant.

“What do you plan to do about it, then?” she asked.  His mind went blank.  “I think what you’re asking me is how to get me to feel things, right?”  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, my, god.  You are sooo frustrating!” she said.  He knew he had fucked up.  He hadn't expected her to get emotional about a question.  She had blindsided him on that.  He knew it was time to make some kind of recovery.

“I mean,” he said (somewhat insincerely), “that I know you’re not very happy and that I need to do something to fix that.”  Actually he had no clue what to do to repair her distress.  He did everything she told him to do.  She said, ‘The house needs to be vacuumed’.  He then vacuumed.  She said, ‘Aren't you supposed to be washing the dishes?’ and he took the hint and headed for the kitchen.  She reminded him that the mailman had come and gone; he went to the mailbox and got the mail.

He’d been thinking all this when he realized she was waiting for more commentary from him.  “I try to do whatever it is that you tell me to do.  I obey.  I perform.  And I try to do everything assigned to the best of my abilities.”  Her face said it all.  That wasn't enough.

He really didn’t want to grin and smile and pretend that he knew what she wanted him to do to show ‘caring’.  Frankly he resented the fact that all his work seemed to be dismissed as irrelevant.  He reminded himself that his emotions were themselves irrelevancies.  ‘Actions speak louder than words’.  That saying had been engraved in his mind from early childhood.  Only later was it overlaid by ‘What have you done for me lately’ and ‘Money talks; bullshit walks’.  He tried to remember when he’d last bought her a present.  Valentine’s Day.  That was less than two months ago.  Maybe it was time to buy her something nice? Or to take her to a restaurant?  She liked going to restaurants.  “Would you like to go to Mai’s this weekend and have pho?  Or buy some bahn mi thit to bring home?”  She smiled.  Over the hump, he thought, cheerfully.

Nope.

“I meant that you and I need to start showing some emotions – or this relationship is going nowhere,” she said.  The brief smile hadn't lasted very long.  He thought she might be asking for sex, but rejected that idea quickly.  When she was ‘in the mood’ she’d simply say, “Why don’t we have sex tomorrow?”  She’d then smile.  (He would nod.  He almost always was in the mood for sex.  She knew that.)  And then they’d fuck.  He liked that; so did she.  But somehow this conversation wasn't about either performing household chores, or buying her presents, or performing in bed so that she came (...preferably multiple times).

She looked at him.  “You really don’t have a clue what I mean, do you?”.  Ooops.  She knew.  He had to reply honestly, “You want me to feel certain emotions and I don’t seem to be having them is what I hear.  I’m sorry.”  She said nothing.  She looked at him, appearing very unhappy.

“Forget it,” she added, before turning and leaving the room.

He felt relieved.  He now had time to think over ‘the problem’.  Now came the hard part: figuring out how to generate emotions inside himself.  He decided it was ‘doable’.  The problem now was ‘How much time do I have?’  He wondered if she’d walk out before he’d solved the puzzle.

                                                                THE END