Tuesday, March 25, 2014
I don't feel too much like talking. I'm mulling, not musing. There's emptiness and cups spilling over. There are candles, flames, extinguished by fingers, pssst and then a slow burn. There's falling -- by a door so it can't be opened (a boy must leap it in fifteen years) and in love.
A man walked into his therapist's waiting room each Tuesday morning and shared it with Maggie who was there waiting for her son to be fixed. Should I tell him that it's not me that is seeing someone? she wondered. The man was slight, lithe. He sat lightly in the incongruous chair across from her. She sat on the faux brocade divan. Baroque music played discreetly. It might have been Vienna. On the third or fourth week, he moved from the chair to the divan and sat beside her. It was then that it started, a hand on her thigh, their heads tilted, perfectly perfectly quiet.