The Martini Fairy Tell me a story, he said. A happy one. Your stories are always so sad.  It’s what I’m good at. Besides, it’s hard to write a happy story, I said. But I’ll try. What kind of story? One with fairies, he said, after thinking for a moment. The kind with wings. I already know too many stories about the other kind. We were in bed, with only our toes touching. We weren’t looking at each other but instead were gazing out the window overlooking the front yard. We had argued earlier and weren’t really mad anymore, but we were still trying to figure out how to make up.  The fight had started when his sister asked him to take his mother to the doctor, even though his sister doesn’t work and has plenty of free time. I had merely said he shouldn’t always be so willing to help, because he got taken advantage of. I don’t know why we were fighting, but for some reason I thought it was important to get him to admit he couldn’t stop doing it, even though I liked that he was always so giving.…