man beer sleeping brown

the only time he felt happy was when he was asleep. the thought ran through his head all day. on the train in the morning, sitting at his desk, having a beer over lunch, sleeping with his wife.
'how could he be happy if he didn't know what he was thinking or feeling,' his wife would ask her friends.

it was an absence, not a happiness. but neither could distinguish the two. she kept making the pie that he hated - hoping that one day he would explain why he pushed it around and around on his plate, or that one day it would infuriate him so much that he would throw the plate, or pound the table with his weatherworn hands... so that one day, she would know that there was something still alive inside.
'he just seems to be asleep all the time,' she'd mutter.

...

when he had fallen for her the sky hadn't gotten larger or brighter, it had just fallen silent. the whole world around them had fallen silent. so that he could hear her breathe. hear her sigh. hear her coming up the hall. the world seemed less brown - less edged.

and it was that time he dreamt of when he was asleep... but how could he explain it to her over dinner. how could he say that he frowned all the way home on the train. that he couldn't hear her anymore.