Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot
Yesterday I biked over to my therapist’s office through a mire of stagnant air and climbed the flight of stairs into his darkened waiting room. He wasn’t there — the boombox that normally trickled out classical music was silent. I checked my appointment card, I called and I waited. The thermos in the waiting room was out of water, and only the ice cream truck crawling by outside marked the passing of time. One bar of music accompanied the ripple of reflected light across the ceiling.
Today he was there. I managed to change my shirt in the waiting room without frightening any small children, but his eyes still seemed to burn with the knowledge that I was smearing sweat on his couch. I marvel every time at his thick beard, neatly trimmed but massive: it moves when he talks. I pictured teams of men blasting his face out of granite.
“So what’s your fucking deal this week?” he asked.
I wondered if he wore pajamas to bed — maybe a pale blue with lavender pinstripes. Right then he was wearing most of a tailored suit. The jacket was hanging on a hanger on the back of the door.
Drink up, baby, stay up all night
The things you could do, you won’t but you might
The potential you’ll be that you’ll never see
The promises you’ll only make
Drink up with me now and forget all about the pressure of days
Do what I say and I’ll make you okay and drive them away
The images stuck in your head
People you’ve been before that you don’t want around anymore
That push and shove and won’t bend to your will
I’ll keep them still
Drink up, baby, look at the stars, I’ll kiss you again
Between the bars where I’m seeing you
There with your hands in the air waiting to finally be caught
Drink up one more time and I’ll make you mine
Keep you apart, deep in my heart, separate from the rest
Where I like you the best
And keep the things you forgot
The people you’ve been before that you don’t want around anymore
That push and shove and won’t bend to your will
I’ll keep them still
Aw shit, let’s bust out the fucking Elliot!
Elliott makes me cry.
Yes.
My friend who is a therapist is incredulous that (y)our Dr. Shrinker swears in session. I find it comforting. Life calls for swearing . . . and MasterCard.
Your friend who is a therapist?
Also, this is slightly fictionalized to illustrate the discombobulation that yesterday’s session induced.
Lori. Ella’s mom. She is a therapist.
You usually fictionalize Aaron, which is amusing as hell to me. Sorry about the emotional turmoil. I hope the outcome, at least, is worth it.