Outside my window
"A lone man rides by on a one-wheeled unicycle. He steers with his hands on either side of the wheel, or maybe that's just him hanging on."
Sherry LaCourte looks over at me with a bland inquisitiveness, ever so slightly raising one perfectly groomed auburn eyebrow.
"I push my whole body against the window until my breasts are flattened and my nose aches from the cold."
I look to my left as I'm talking, pausing between "breasts" and "flattened" for dramatic effect.
"And you think this has something to do with your mother's breast cancer?" Sherry asks, curious.
I scowl. The last thing in the world I want to do is talk about what's actually happening. The room smells like stale wool.
"I thought you were a Jungian," I say, not without a sting in my voice.
Goddamn I hate therapists is what I'm thinking, but instead of saying it out loud and dealing with the whole trite "transference" thing, I scratch the back of my left calf with the top of my faux alligator cowboy boot, greener than any swamp I've ever seen.
"Juniper..." she starts to explain something to me sounding exactly like my mother but with slightly less noticeable exasperation. Still I can feel it there.
I play with a tiny piece of gravel I find with my right hand as I run my fingers along the textured surface of the love seat. Psychologists never have couches, contrary to popular belief. Too hard to get their patients out the door.
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