September 2009
September 2009
I returned to my job. I explained to Mr. Peterson the circumstances, taking in my pride like a punch. He seems to understand, with a bit of well-placed condescension.
"No worries," he tells me with a sly smile. "We all make stupid, hasty decisions sometimes. Join me for a cigarette?
I had been under the impression I was trying to quit but that goes to the wind. I reach for one of the skinny white cylinders.
This is however before September. September, things try to fall apart.
"Wake me up when September ends," Sarah says before she leaves one morning.
"Don't quote Green Day to me." I instruct her. "It's unbecoming."
"Oh?" She kisses me fast and leaves. I like things like this.
Things try to fall apart. Sarah and I have uneasy, uneven silences this month. Pregnant with something; I don't know what. I feel like I've heard them all before- echoes of the same.
"What?" I ask. She shakes her head.
"Nothing. It's nothing."
Paul has been writing her. I tell myself. I know it: I looked over her shoulder once and saw her checking emails with his name in the "sender" address. I did not utter a word.
I start seeing a therapist. This is my mother's suggestion, though not outright. She had confided me in the end of August she had been seeing once since the night of her household "cleanse." I say that like it was her body and she wanted it to be rid of fat.
"Did you like it?" I remember I asked her.
"What's there to like? Dr. Gibson is personable and warm, and that's all I want in a therapist. I don't feel like he's judging me."
So.
"David?" The first thing I noticed about Dr. Gibson were his fingers because they were enormous. In a lewder time, I would have wondered how those fingers would have fit inside a vagina. Painful.
Seriously: like sausages.
"You seem far away. You all right? You don't have to say much, I know this is your first time." And he's talking to me like we're having sex.
I breathe in. My nostrils get bigger. The room is air-conditioned like a hotel. His various diplomas from this university and that university decorate the wood-panelled walls. I don't know why I'm doing this- if you asked, I couldn't come up with enough excuses. Perhaps it's because no one else would listen? I do not want to burden my mother? I do not want to burden Sarah? People have enough thoughts of their own, and here I am with this mental prostitute.
"There's a lot." I'm purposely vague.
"You should talk about it. Why else are you here?" He has this Italian suit on and I can smell the musk of his cologne. It's not obnoxious as so many men's are. It doesn't choke you. But it's pungent.
"My mom recommended you."
"I like your mom. She's an interesting lady." I just look at him.
"Oh. She is, is she?" Dr. Gibson nods fiercely.
"Why yes! She is. So pleasant and intelligent. You should count yourself lucky you have her for a mother." He taps his pen against his shoe's heel (his one leg is crossed his lap). "My old lady was a real bitch."
I returned to my job. I explained to Mr. Peterson the circumstances, taking in my pride like a punch. He seems to understand, with a bit of well-placed condescension.
"No worries," he tells me with a sly smile. "We all make stupid, hasty decisions sometimes. Join me for a cigarette?
I had been under the impression I was trying to quit but that goes to the wind. I reach for one of the skinny white cylinders.
This is however before September. September, things try to fall apart.
"Wake me up when September ends," Sarah says before she leaves one morning.
"Don't quote Green Day to me." I instruct her. "It's unbecoming."
"Oh?" She kisses me fast and leaves. I like things like this.
Things try to fall apart. Sarah and I have uneasy, uneven silences this month. Pregnant with something; I don't know what. I feel like I've heard them all before- echoes of the same.
"What?" I ask. She shakes her head.
"Nothing. It's nothing."
Paul has been writing her. I tell myself. I know it: I looked over her shoulder once and saw her checking emails with his name in the "sender" address. I did not utter a word.
I start seeing a therapist. This is my mother's suggestion, though not outright. She had confided me in the end of August she had been seeing once since the night of her household "cleanse." I say that like it was her body and she wanted it to be rid of fat.
"Did you like it?" I remember I asked her.
"What's there to like? Dr. Gibson is personable and warm, and that's all I want in a therapist. I don't feel like he's judging me."
So.
"David?" The first thing I noticed about Dr. Gibson were his fingers because they were enormous. In a lewder time, I would have wondered how those fingers would have fit inside a vagina. Painful.
Seriously: like sausages.
"You seem far away. You all right? You don't have to say much, I know this is your first time." And he's talking to me like we're having sex.
I breathe in. My nostrils get bigger. The room is air-conditioned like a hotel. His various diplomas from this university and that university decorate the wood-panelled walls. I don't know why I'm doing this- if you asked, I couldn't come up with enough excuses. Perhaps it's because no one else would listen? I do not want to burden my mother? I do not want to burden Sarah? People have enough thoughts of their own, and here I am with this mental prostitute.
"There's a lot." I'm purposely vague.
"You should talk about it. Why else are you here?" He has this Italian suit on and I can smell the musk of his cologne. It's not obnoxious as so many men's are. It doesn't choke you. But it's pungent.
"My mom recommended you."
"I like your mom. She's an interesting lady." I just look at him.
"Oh. She is, is she?" Dr. Gibson nods fiercely.
"Why yes! She is. So pleasant and intelligent. You should count yourself lucky you have her for a mother." He taps his pen against his shoe's heel (his one leg is crossed his lap). "My old lady was a real bitch."
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