“And why do you think you engage in this sort of behavior?”
The man sitting across from me stares at me blankly. He’s trained to show no emotion. God dammit, I hate clinical bullshit.
“I don’t know. You are the professional- you tell me. Sir.” A sweet smile paints itself on my lips as I lean towards him. Intentional on my part, but certainly not real. The man shifts, and I think he might want to roll his eyes at me. But he doesn’t. Score. He’s not a robot.
“You are paying me, Ms. Anonymous. These are answers you want for yourself.”
I don’t hold back- and roll my eyes with a heavy sigh.
“No, I want to sleep. I don’t sleep. Don’t you have some sort of medication for that.” I glare at him and cross my arms against my chest- the universal sign for fuck off.
“I do. But we need to chat first. You know that.”
I return his clinical gaze.
“Answer the question.”
I smirk at him.
“Let’s play a game. I’ll answer, and then I’ll ask you a question in response. Tit for tat.”
I think I see a small smile start in the corner of his lips, but it evaporates before my eyes leaving me to question whether it was actually there in the first place.
“What I think matters very little. I arrive at a different conclusion each time I mull it over. At the end of the day I’m just a broken little girl who craves attention and affection. I enter into relationships with unavailable men because I think at my core- I don’t believe I deserve that affection and attention. No, I don’t think that I deserve love.”
“Are you married?” I smirk and uncross my arms from my chest, signaling I’m open again.
“Divorced.” He responds to me quickly- automatically. Which I’ll admit catches me a bit off guard. I wasn’t expecting a response at all, much less at a rapid fire pace.
“Thank you.” My face softens. “Emotionally closed off. Married. Otherwise attached. That sort of unavailable. Then I pound against the walls with my fists hoping to be let in, but it always ends the same.”
He nods at me, but doesn’t say anything. I can feel the words bubbling up in my chest, wanting to escape. Oh god.
“How long?” I ask.
“One year.” He responds immediately again, his facial expression remaining unchanged.
“Fresh. Thank you.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my words.
“Do you dream when you sleep?”
“Yes. I do.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this one.
“It can be unpleasant to dream about someone we’ve lost. Someone that we long for. It makes sense that if the wound is fresh enough, you wouldn’t want to revisit it. Have you thought about that?”
“No. Do you regret getting married in the first place?”
“No. Experiences make us who we are.”
“Cute,” I smirk.
“Can you tell me about him?”
I avert my eyes from his and stare down at the floor. I begin attempting to count the strands of the carpet. 1, 2, 3, 4, this is boring but oh well, 5, 6, 7, 8. I can see his face in my mind. 9, 10, 11, 12. I remember the first time he kissed me.13, 14, 15, 16. I remember it being sweet and innocent, although it was anything but. 17, 18, 19, 20. He made me feel alive and young. Like a nervous school-girl grappling with her first crush. 21, 22, 23, 24. I remember driving to meet him, that day in the park. My hands were shaking as I gripped the steering wheel. I kept telling myself to hold it together. I needed to appear confident. Men like confidence, right? 25, 26, 27, 28. I remember not wanting that kiss to end. I remember it wanting to go farther. 29, 30, 31, 32. When he kissed me, I knew that though we are tethered to the stories we must tell, we’d tell this one well. 33, 34, 35, 36. I remember driving off with that excitement you can only get from a new lover. All the hopes. And the dreams. 37, 38, 39, 40. I remember how my name sounded on his lips. Brianna.
I look up from the carpet. I’m visibly shaken from letting my mind wander.
“No. I think our time is up by the way.” I blink at him. He checks his watch.
“Indeed it is.”
“Same time next week?” I stand and start to gather my things, my back turned to him as I retrieve my laptop bag from the couch and sling it over my shoulder. I whip back to face him and flash my million-watt smile. “Sir.” My eyes narrow, but the smile stays firmly fixed in place.
He’s standing as well.
“I’ll be here. If you need to see me sooner let me know.”
“I think I can wait a week. Give me a little credit.”
“Thanks.” I start towards the door. Sweet fucking freedom. He places himself in front of my escape route.
“It’s okay to dream. It’s okay to think about him.”
I stare down at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. He’s uncomfortable close. A little odd, given his role in my life.
“Can I go now?”
He steps aside and I bolt. I whiz past the strangers in the waiting room and head straight for the doors leading outside. I nearly run into someone on my mad dash to the car. Keep it together. I climb into Minnie, start the car, and drive. Music blaring. Windows down. I don’t know where I’m going. But I’m glad you’re traveling with me.
A Note From The Bitch: So- what do you guys think? Do you want some more? I’m interested in seeing where this goes. Spoiler alert: pretty sure she’s gonna bone the therapist. He’s dark and twisty incarnate. This shit is copyrighted and I will hunt you down and find you if you try to publish it. I’m sharing because I like your faces. The end. And my ego is rather smallargeish. (I made that word up).