the paradox of failure

something short...

“and what’s it even mean to you,” she said, steadying her glass of wine with her many-ringed fingers, “if you fail? What’s that even mean?”
I sat there. I hesitated. It seemed so simple. Why’s she even asking? It is simple. I fail if I… and put into the conditional, it’s no longer simple. I can’t explain it any more. I don’t have the words to explain it.
“I fail if I… I fail if I end up doing something I hate.”
She took a sip of her wine, and with her free hand, she made circular gestures in the air. My answer wasn’t good enough.
“Okay, okay,” she said. The wine stuck in her throat. “Give me a second.” She cleared her throat violently. “Continue.”
I sat there again. I hesitated. I fail if I…
“Maybe it’s… it’s more abstract, you know?” I offered.
“No, I don’t. Explain.” Another sip of wine.
“Like, maybe it’s more than, I don’t know, a singular action. Maybe it’s a whole bunch of things.”
She smiled, “OK, OK, amusing, my friend. So you’re saying there are a whole slew of things that constitute failure, right?”
“Yes,”
“and you’re worried about all of them coming together. Lining up, so to speak. Like a slot machine?”
“I guess so.”
She laughed, violently. “that’s great. That is so great. You know, people walk around waiting for some string of lucky things to happen… finding some great guy or girl, having a child, getting a scholarship, getting a great job… but not you. You wait for all the unlucky things. You wait for them to line up, like a slot machine.”
I felt stupid. It wasn’t that simple... But how could I express that?
“It’s not that simple,” I offered pathetically.
She laughed again. Another sip of wine.
Suddenly, filled with courage, I grabbed her hand. I lifted upward, inspecting it. I adjusted one of her rings. It was a plain silver band, with some worn-off inscription.
“You got some cute allegory to share, for your rings, too, huh?” I asked, angrily.
“What?” she was still laughing. I wasn’t laughing. She looked at me straight in the eyes. In a second her expression sobered up. “Really, what are you saying?” she asked again.
“I don’t know. I’m not as poetic, I guess. Are these rings symbolic of all the things lining up too? All the unlucky things I’m waiting for?”
She half-smiled. “Don’t be so dramatic, okay? I’m just showing you how ridiculous your fears are. Your fear of failure. You don’t even know what it is. You can’t tell me. That’s all I’m saying.”
I dropped her hand, and it fell limp between her legs. She took another sip of wine and shook her head.