It might have been nice to commiserate together about the perfidy of men, but Wren had never told her about Rufus. Such an admission would entail too much confessing, too much explaining. And besides, sitting in front of the TV with your mom when you were in your twenties, comparing notes on how rotten men could be was, well, sad.
So he kept his frustration and hurt bottled up inside and did little beyond go to work, come home, eat, watch TV, and sleep.
He supposed this was what depression felt like. But he didn’t even care enough, nor have the energy, to Google the symptoms of that malady to find out if he was indeed suffering from it.
As the bus headed north, it would typically empty out as people got off to begin shifts along Clark and its cross streets. Wren sat up straighter, reminding himself he needed to stop wallowing in misery, to just try to look outside himself for five minutes—then maybe he could begin to move on.