I sit with her in an unfamiliar room and she feels unfamiliar to me. She is far away as if on a dais and the echo of the room makes her hard to hear and I cannot peel my own voice away from itself to even know if I have been heard by myself. Around us the room sits either in transition or ruin. Boxes and empty shelves. A statuette of a woman with bared breasts stands like a totem that is too proud of itself. This is a foreign land that I have paid $12 to get to through an app that turns everyone into a cab driver. I hate this place and time. Her pale blue eyes do nothing. A week ago I needed to be here, but now I don't know why I came at all. Why I should ever come again. This is not the 4th dimension I find comforting. This is a dry box of nowhere in a neighborhood I haunted once when I was someone else. She folds her sweater over her breasts in a motion that walls her off to me. Today, when I look at this therapist, someone I have told all to, I feel like I am a check book to her and nothing more.
The rest of the afternoon is a countdown to sleep and I think, I will not go back again to that place.
