Weekly Wednesday by Cat Weaver
They looked at each other for a moment.
How so? What’s bothersome?
What isn’t? Every morning. The toothpaste. I hate mint. Three, four, five times every day ya gotta pee. Food. Food forever. Forever on the mind. Clothes that itch, or twist, or dig or hang funny. ON YOU. All day every day. And people too; on you. Every single day: ON you. I hate community.
You hate people?
No. Community. Demands. Cooperation. GOD! I HATE cooperation.
But what do you love?
LOVE? Anymore? Look: my favorite foods caused my cancer. My favorite people? They tossed me in here and don’t look back. My favorite game was chess; do you think I could play chess these days? Hell, I forget to take my pants down before I pee. LOVE? Ha. I need an older therapist. You’re a cute one. Love.
They looked away from each other, out the window, for a moment.
It’s like I’ve always been in a waiting room. We all are. And the boredom and the irritations mounting…unfamiliar furniture and other people’s magazines and the woman with the kid who still thinks life is about him and the tissue box with the dust on it, the fake plants offending every sense of nature.
But the real kicker is when you realize you aren’t even waiting for anything. This is it. The waiting room with the idiots and the pummeling bad aesthetics. This is it. Has BEEN it… in your hopeful idiotic youth when it all seemed temporary; in your angsty middle years when you thought you had something to strive for or to fight for or to hang on to.
They looked at Liza’s shoes, the both of them for a moment. The old woman from her seat near the thriving rubber plant that she hated. The therapist, proud of her ankles and suddenly aware that the two-tone high heel pumps were clownish.
And now Liza rose and announced that time was up, the ‘p’ sticking to her brilliant red lipstick, along with Mina’s ruthless gaze.
Outside yellow leaves blown in the crisp breeze, spiraled to the sidewalk — Oh hell, yes. It was fall. For fuck sake. Mina, spiraling downward, edges curled with indignance against the cliché.
A block down the street, water running along the curbside, swirled with a ghostly hint of white from the soap Jason Hilltraub had dumped out of a brilliant yellow bucket outside the Dusty Camel café where Liza took a chai tea and plumped herself onto a bench near a window in order to watch the darling people… dogs in sweaters and kids in animal hats and teens on wheels. Liza loved them. Loved. Loved them all.