Monica

Let's call her Monica.
Monica claims to be 41, but I think she might be a bit older. She's vain; I know this because I've rummaged through her purse once. It contained more creams than a Walgreens.
She's had some work done too. Her nose is a bit generic.

I started therapy just before I left for Berlin. Dad said I lacked direction and that he suspected I was suffering from a chronic dull level of depression.

So I went to this clinic in Silverlake. And I met Monica. She is an ex-Freudian, now a firm believer in cognitive therapy. And pills. She didn't want to hear me talk about the past. Stay with what's going on now, she said. The past has past.

She's married to an LA Times editor. They fuck once every two weeks. According to her foreplay consists of him asking her if they should do it. Then he kisses her, generically, and starts to unbutton his pants. They have a child. And a nanny to take care of that child.

I liked her from the start. Those legs and those baby-blue panties peeking out. But I didn't like therapy. I didn't like the way it made me feel self-indulgent. Paying someone to listen to my problems made me feel as if I had no problems (which I do).

Then, just before Christmas, I ran into her in the parking lot, and we got to talking. Just small talk you know, about what we would do for the holidays. She asked me if I would come sit in her car and listen to her favorite song. It was 'Maps' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which surprised me. Maybe I am prejudiced now, but she seemed too old to like it.

We sat there listening and the air was so loaded I felt I had to chew every breath I took.


Wait, they don't love you like I love you

images borrowed from super-cool: ghostwerld.wordpress.com/