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Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle of wine breathing on the nightstand, I was a complete no-show. It’s a special kind of ego death when the spirit is willing but the flesh is basically a cooked noodle. She eventually sat back, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and looked at me—not with anger, but with a sort of clinical pity that felt even worse.

'Forget it,' she said, pulling the duvet up. 'If it’s not happening, it’s not happening. But I’m not wasting a five-star room. Pass me a glass of that wine; let’s just see if these squids find love instead.'" Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle

'Is it the pressure?' she asked, her voice surprisingly soft. 'Forget it,' she said, pulling the duvet up

'I think it’s the everything,' I muttered, staring at the ceiling. 'The work week, the expectations, the fact that I’ve been staring at a spreadsheet for twelve hours a day. My brain hasn’t left the office even if I have.' Pass me a glass of that wine; let’s