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“Drinking and darts don’t mix,” he says.

“You’re no fun.” I slump down on my chair and pretend to pout.

“What’s up? Sam asks. “You’ve never liked getting drunk.”

I pick up another dart. “You don’t like the new me?”

Before I can throw the dart, Sam takes it out of my hand, walks over to the bar, and hands all the darts to the bartender. “What’s going on with you?” he asks when he gets back to the table.

“My life’s a mess. I hate being a psychologist.” That’s the first time I’ve said that out loud, and it feels good.

“Since when?” he asks.

“About six months ago. I’m burned out, and I don’t want to hear anyone else’s problems.” I let the cold, frothy beer slide down my throat. “I just want to stay here for the rest of my life and drink beer.”

“And I’m guessing you haven’t discussed any of this with Maggie.”

“Nope. I’ve been hiding it.”

“Not very well. Maggie told Ellen you’ve been distracted and disconnected.”

“Great. Did she also tell her I barely ever want to have sex?” This is so embarrassing.

“No. Really? No sex? Not even a little foreplay?” I shake my head. “Hey, it’s no big deal. It happens to most men. Not to me, but to a lot of others,” Sam says.

“It’s not that Ican’thave sex. I have no desire. I’m exhausted just getting through the day. The thought of sex seems like too much work.” The bartender asks if we want another drink. I say yes, but Sam shakes his head no.

“You have to tell Maggie the truth.”

“It’s easier to tell her it’s work stress, which is the truth. If I tell her everything, she’s going to get upset and ask how we’re going to pay our bills or what I’m going to do instead, and I can’t take any more stress right now.”

“If you think she hasn’t noticed that you don’t want to have sex, you’re drunker than I thought.”

“I know she has. It’s crazy that I specialize in couples therapy, and every day I help my clients in similar situations, but I can’t fix my own life. I’m a fraud.” I want another beer, but I haven’t had more than two beers since college, and I know if I drink another one, it will be bad. “You can’t tell Ellen anything I just told you,” I say to Sam, who has grabbed a handful of peanuts and shelled them faster than a monkey could. My stomach churns at the thought of how many gross drunk guys like me have had their hands in those peanuts.

“I won’t.” Sam throws the broken shells on the sawdust floor.

I take a peanut from the bowl and eat it. It may be gross, but at this point I’m starving. “Now, can we talk about something else?” I ask.

We spend the rest of the time talking about our fantasy football picks, wishing that Hootie and the Blowfish would get back together, and lamenting that twenty-five-year-old women consider us old.

An hour and a half later, I get behind the wheel of my car. A beautiful BMW. A car I waited years for, until we could afford it. A car that used to make me feel successful. But true success can’t come from a car. My dad said success came from doing what you loved. He came home in a good mood every night. He acted as though selling insurance was the greatest job in the world, even though he didn’t make much money. My dad was successful, no matter how often his Dodge Dart broke down. Why can’t I feel more like him?

I still have clients to see, so it’s good I’m now sober. Although I wonder if lately I’d be a better therapist buzzed. As I park in front of my office building, I notice the shutters on the windows have slats missing, the paint is chipped and faded, and the grass in front is dying. Why haven’t I noticed this before? Is this building indicative of my depression? I open the door to my office, and with the lights and the heat off, the air is oppressive.

My patients are both women I’ve been seeing for a long time. Celia has been coming for eleven years. She’s survived a divorce, a cancer scare, and a teenage son’s drug addiction. She’s been in a good place for the last three years and probably doesn’t need me anymore, but my bank account doesn’t have the guts to tell her. She curls up on my couch, adjusting a throw pillow behind her lower back. “My new husband’s amazing. I’ve never had anyone treat me so well,” she says. “I feel so lucky.”

When was the last time I appreciated Maggie? When was the last time I even gave her a compliment? I doubt I make her feel lucky. My mind wanders, and I almost forget to end the session. When the light on the wall goes on, signaling my next client has arrived, I usher Celia out. I take a few moments to breathe, then I ask my next patient, Beverly, to come in. Beverly has been pushing people out of her life for years. Sometimes I wish she’d push me out of her life, because she exhausts me. I’m happy when our fifty minutes is up. I end the session four minutes early, but since the clock isn’t facing her, I hope she doesn’t notice. I wonder if I’m helping any of my clients or if they keep coming because the alternative of starting over with someone new is worse.

I head home and am disappointed to see Maggie’s car in the driveway. I feel bad that I don’t want to see her, but I don’t want to see anyone. I wish I could go into the woods and live in a cabin for a few months and do nothing but regenerate. Then maybe I’d be able to go back to my clients and not hate them all.

Maggie opens the door and greets me on the porch. “You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be.” She’s happy to see me. I almost wish she wasn’t. I follow her into the kitchen, putting my keys on the hook and my briefcase on the counter.

“How was target practice?” she asks as she pulls out various pots and pans from the cabinet underneath the oven.

“Good.”

“And your patients?”