more or less, if you take off the snow, the cement streets have a sheen to them. that's especially true after the general practitioner has advised you to jot down whatever you're feeling on her notepad. of course she'd like to read it. and of course if you feel like an idiot showing it to her, it's probably best you did.
everything feels rehearsed anyway. everything is a mopey adventure in whining. you can't seem to say out loud whatever it is that has taken the wrestle out of the sunshine and turned it into this gorgeous mole just under her eye.
her name is hyphenated. you imagine this is because she was a wizard and her husband, a king of sorts. you imagine that they turned over their small country to the little people when they left, palms cupped into a royal wave, and she brought it with her - that star mole under her bottom eyelash. you imagine she didn't have it before.
she knew you needed counseling before she walked in the room. she wanted to say well, you're not hear about your back at all. but she knew that would be condescending.
it's the wizard thing. she asks about girlfriends. brothers and sisters.
you see seas.
she sees seas. she hands you exercises for your back. she shakes your hand - twice. she knows she couldn't have hugged you - professionally. and besides,
she can tell you're just not that type.
she recommends a masseuse. preferably not an old lover. preferably a professional.
someone like her.
these cement streets would make a good bed. if you could bring out your comforter and your three floppy pillows. just for a night. just you and the stars - dreaming about a homemade masseuse, and the wizardess of small countries whose hands would probably have been warm on your cheek - were you, of course,
the sort to allow such mothering.