the more i go, the more comfortable i become with the prospect of simply talking. it's strange, her listening to no one but me. i sit in a comfy chair, extra cushions, and speak about mundane things that all too often envelope me, crush me. the things that won't go away, the feelings that are not always good.
"how do you feel?" she asks me.
"fine," is my reply.
apparently, though, fine is not a feeling. i sit and think about this. if i am not fine, then what am i?
"not bad?" i toss out, voice rising on the second syllable in question, as though i am testing the water at the beach, standing on the damp sand, feeling the cold rush over my very ticklish toes, retracing my steps back to the chair. and the books. no, not today.
notes are taken. it is funny. i feel like an experiment. scientific method. form a question. gather information. test. observe. record. draw a conclusion. i am many things, but i have a feeling a conclusion is not one of them.
when i don't feel like looking at her, i don't have to. my eyes shift to the floor, to the wall, to the bookshelf. she has cold mountain.
i take notes.
though it's hard to believe... for someone who usually talks too much, sometimes i run out of things, wring my wrists limply, raise my eyebrows, clench my jaw. fold my arms. cross my legs. inhale. exhale.
there is a box of tissues, but i don't use them. i don't need to use them. this is my fault. no sense in feeling sorry for yourself, right?
besides, i am just fine, thankyouverymuch.