I used to paint every day – for hours, without taking a break. But this year, I can’t even manage to pick up my brush, dab it in some paint, and press it against a canvas.

I’ve been sitting in the warehouse I use as a painting studio for the last four hours staring at a blank canvas. I’m paralyzed, unable to move. I just don’t have the energy to paint anymore. Something I used to love to do, and was considered incredibly talented at, no longer holds my interest. I just don’t see the point. The world doesn’t need another painting. My inspiration has dried up.

My muse has been taken from me.

With Ashley gone, I’ve lost any sense of meaning in my life.

There’s a knock at my door. With a heavy sigh, I place my brush down and get up from my chair. I head toward the front door. Someone broke the lock to the front of my building a few weeks ago. It still hasn’t gotten fixed. So right now, anyone can enter the building and knock on my door. It’s really annoying. Fortunately, I don’t get too many visitors these days. As I approach my front door, I have a sneaking suspicion who it might be.

There’s another knock.

“Is that you, Harry?”

“How’d you know?” he answers back through the door.

“Lucky guess.”

“Jackson, I’ve been calling you for the last two days. You haven’t answered. Let me in.”

I shake my head, annoyed. “I’m not in the mood to talk. Just leave me alone. I’ll call you later,” I say through the door.

“If you’re painting, I’ll leave you alone. Are you painting, Jackson?”

I consider lying but decide to tell him the truth. “No.”

“Then let me the fuck in.”

I sigh and open the door. Harry storms in with a wide grin. “Why haven’t you answered your phone?” he asks, patting my shoulder.

“Because I’ve been ignoring you.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally,” he says with another smile as he walks toward the center of the room. Harry is a few years older than me. He’s a good-looking guy with a wife and daughter. I owe all my financial success to Harry. He discovered me when I was a struggling artist. He was the one who bought my painting for $10,000 dollars and lifted me out of poverty. He had faith in me when no one else did. He’s been my agent / manager for the last fifteen years. But in actuality, he’s more like family to me than an agent. He’s definitely my best friend.

“If you’ve come by to tell me how I need to get to work, and finish the paintings we promised Amanda at the gallery, just save it. All right? I don’t want to hear it right now,” I rant.

Harry turns and shakes his head. “I’m not here to scold you, buddy. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Did you put the apartment on the market?”

“Not yet,” I mutter.

Harry shoots me a concerned look. “Sell the apartment, Jackson. It will bring the closure you need to move on.”

“We’ll see,” I reply with a shrug.

I just can’t bring myself to sell the apartment I shared with Ashley. I don’t want to say goodbye to all those memories.

“How you doing otherwise?” he inquires.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, although neither one of us believes it. With the dark thoughts running through my mind, I’m anything but fine.

“You don’t sound too convincing,” Harry replies, sarcastically.

“What do you want, Harry?” I ask with a sigh. I really just want to be left alone.

Harry beams and I notice a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I have some good news.”

I have a hunch what Harry thinks is good news won’t make me too happy.

“I got you a date,” he proclaims, rubbing his hands together. “And she’s a hottie, bro. Killer body. Nice tits. Great ass. You’ll love her.”

I sigh and shake my head. “Not happening,” I tell him.

But Harry persists. “Hey, didn’t your therapist say you should start engaging with people more? This whole hermitic existence thing you’ve got going on, Jackson, has to come to an end sooner or later. You know I love you, but I can’t be your only connection to the outside world. You need to start interacting with people again.”

“When my therapist said I should interact with people, I don’t think he meant going out on a date.”

Harry shoots me a devilish smirk. “He would have, if he saw the body on this girl. Her tits are amazing. Trust me. If I wasn’t married, I would bang her myself. Anyway, you’re going to pick her up next Wednesday at 7pm. Her name is Tiffany Porsche. She’s a news anchor for one of those entertainment gossip channels. I made you dinner reservations at Balthazar.”

“An entertainment news anchor, seriously?” I say, annoyed. “You know I hate that celebrity gossip bullshit. Cancel it. I’m not going.”

I walk past Harry, frustrated, and take a seat in front of my blank canvas again.

Harry walks over to me, determined. “I’m not going to cancel it. You’re going on this date.”

“No, I’m not,” I reply like a petulant child.

“Yes, you are,” Harry insists.

I rise angrily from my chair. “You don’t tell me what to do, Harry! You work for me, remember!” I shout at him.

I feel bad the second I say it. Harry is more than my manager / agent. He’s my best friend. I know he means well by setting me up on this date, but I’m just not interested.

“Fine,” he says defensively. “Let’s keep this strictly professional then, Jackson. That’s even more reason for you to go on this date.” He points to the blank canvas. “You haven’t painted shit in nine months. If we pull out of this gallery exhibit, your brand is going to take a serious hit. Which means our business takes a serious hit.”

There’s a long pause. As he looks at me, I notice the defensive look in his eyes change to one of concern. “I know how much you miss her, bro. I know she meant a lot to you. But you were a great artist before you met Ashley. And you’re still a great artist now that she’s gone.”

“I was better with her by my side,” I tell him. “You know for a fact that she made me better. The paintings were stronger, more inspired. Now that she’s gone, the work will never be that good.”

I walk away from the canvas, toward the large window in my studio that overlooks the nearby river.

After a long moment of silence, Harry says, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but there are other women out there. Ashley was great, don’t get me wrong. And I know she had a profound impact on your work. But there are other women out there. Women just as amazing. Trust me, if you just get back into the dating scene, you’re going to meet somebody who will make you feel just as great.”

“I don’t want to,” I mutter, observing the choppy waves of the nearby river. “I’ve been with enough women in my life to know how special she was.”

There’s another long moment of silence.

“Fine,” I hear Harry say. “Then let me put it this way: If you don’t go on this date with Tiffany Porsche, I will hereby stop functioning as your manager and your agent.”

I turn around and stare at him with disbelief.

“Seriously?”

Harry looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “You’re leaving me no choice, Jackson. I represent working artists. I don’t want to piss off Amanda at the gallery. She’s been very good to us over the years. I also have my reputation to worry about, you know?” He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t like talking to you like this, because you know I love you, right? But this has to end, sooner or later, Jackson. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this. You have to check back into the human race. So go on this date… for me. Because if you don’t, you leave me no other choice but to stop representing you.”

I can tell by the expression on his face, and the look in his eyes, Harry actually means what he says. He can be just as stubborn as I am. Although I no longer have much interest in painting, Harry remains my only connection to the “real” world these days. If I lose Harry, I really don’t have much else.

“Fine.” I give in. Then I point my finger at him. “I’ll go on the date. Just this once. But you can’t do this to me again, Harry. You can’t threaten to quit if I refuse any more dates.”

The serious expression on Harry’s face suddenly breaks into a wide smile. He walks over to me and grabs me by the face with both his hands. “That’s my boy!” he says with excitement. “I think you’re gonna like this chick. And do me a favor, try to get your dick wet. All right? A little pussy always helps a man get his head straight.”

“Give me a break,” I reply.

Harry drops his hands from my face and shrugs his shoulders. “What?! It’s true! Studies have shown that it’s not good for a man to go too long without getting laid. It can really do a number on our brain.”

Harry turns and walks toward the door.

“Remember. Next Wednesday. 7pm. Balthazar. I’ll text you her address.”

Before leaving, he turns to me and says, “Who knows, maybe this chick will get you inspired again. I’ll talk to you later, bro.”

He opens the door and walks out.

Once he’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. But then I realize I have a date next week. I’m dreading it.

* * *

Harry was right. Tiffany Porsche did have an impressive body and even more impressive breasts. Too bad every inch of her had been sculpted by a plastic surgeon. I don’t think there was a single part of her body that hadn’t been altered somehow.

I like my women natural and with healthy curves. I’m not interested in plastic.

The second Tiffany got into my car and we headed toward Balthazar, I realized there was another reason I didn’t think Tiffany and I would hit it off. She was glued to her phone and taking selfies the entire car ride to the restaurant.

“My branding manager says I need to update my Instagram account at least ten times a day to increase my traffic,” she informs me as she snaps another selfie, apparently not satisfied with how her hair looks.

Then she insists on taking a selfie with me while I’m driving.

“There’s no better way to improve your social media traffic than to take a picture with a hot guy. Smile, Jackson!”

I begrudgingly smile as she snaps a picture of us.

When we finally get to Balthazar, things don’t get much better. After we place our order with the waiter, Tiffany keeps responding to text message after text message.

I miss the days when you could get to know someone without a phone interrupting your conversation every five-seconds.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she shoots off another text. “Everybody’s freaking out about Bradley and Raquel.”

“Bradley and Raquel?” I ask confused.

She looks at me like I’ve been living in a cave. Which I guess I sort of have been.

“They broke up!” she declares. “It’s like the biggest news of the century. Where have you been, Jackson?”

“Why is their breakup such big news?” I ask, not understanding the magnitude of the situation.

“Because they’re the hottest couple with the most Twitter and Instagram followers!” she replies. “Combined they have like a billion social media followers. I’m actually going to conduct an exclusive interview with Bradly and Raquel in two days to discuss the breakup.”

“They’re going to do an interview with you on why they broke up?” I ask, still dumbfounded on why this is breaking news. “Why is it any of our business?”

Tiffany looks at me like I’ve just spoken in a foreign language she doesn’t understand. “Because we live in the 21st century, Jackson. Everything is everyone’s business.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry. I guess I’m old school. I like my privacy.”

“That’s cute,” she responds as she sends off another text.

The waiter returns and drops off our salads.

“Yummy,” Tiffany exclaims as she takes a picture of her salad and uploads it to her Instagram account.

I watch her, amazed. Does every moment in our lives now need to be documented? No matter how trivial?

“You just took a picture of a salad?” I point out.

Tiffany nods with a smile, “I take pictures of all the food I eat.”

“Why?”

She looks at me like I’m an alien from another planet. “Because, like I told you in the car, I need to update my social media feed at least ten times a day. Pictures of hot guys – like yourself – and food, always drive a spike in traffic.”

I shake my head in bewilderment. I don’t understand the world anymore. And the longer I look at Tiffany, glued to her phone, I realize there’s absolutely nothing we have in common.

“Excuse me,” I tell her as I place my napkin on the table. “I need to use the restroom.”

Tiffany looks up from her phone and smiles. “Sure.”

I get up from the table and head to the back of the restaurant. I was lying when I told her I needed to use the restroom. I just need to get away. When I step into the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and look at my reflection in the mirror.

I know I’m being overly critical of Tiffany. But the thirty minutes I have spent with her have only reinforced in my mind how special Ashley was. I can’t picture myself on a series of dates with women like Tiffany. I just have nothing in common with them. I want someone with substance. Not someone obsessed with the frivolous, the superficial, the shallow.

Maybe Tiffany isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s me. The world has clearly changed. I’m a painter living in a world of selfies. Maybe I just don’t belong anymore.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, a dark dread and loneliness comes crashing down on me. The thought of returning to that dinner table and faking a pleasant conversation with Tiffany seems unbearable.

I can’t fake anything right now.

I’m just too miserable.

I step out of the restroom and make my way toward the dining area. I stop when I see Tiffany sitting in her chair texting away on her phone. I know I’m being an asshole, but I just can’t muster the energy to go back and join her for dinner. We have absolutely nothing in common. I contemplate just walking out of the restaurant and leaving her there, but I realize that would be a really jerk move.

I walk back to the table but don’t take a seat.

“Is there something wrong?” Tiffany asks looking up from her phone.

“I’m sorry, I’m really not feeling well,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to go.”

She looks shocked and confused. “Oh. Really?”

I nod. “I’m sorry. By all means, enjoy your salad. I’ll pay for dinner. I’m really just not feeling well.”

I then turn and walk away from the table. I make arrangements with the waiter to charge everything to my credit card. I feel bad leaving Tiffany alone in the restaurant, but this wave of depression is slowly drowning me. It’s just too unbearable to fake my way through.