just-watching, and I get tired of the way her hand with the cigarette in it finds her mouth over and over and over without hitching on her jacket or stopping to consider lung cancer or even just missing its mark. Sheâs a painting and a work of art and a person I wish I could be. But the calm I get from seeing her is short-lived. My mind keeps returning to those pamphlets from Dr. Pat that lie, partly crumpled, on the seat beside me.
Or maybe itâs Austin who is the real pull.
He reminds me of someone else. Like another guy I used to like who had the same skinny unkempt-ness, the same ironic T-shirts. It makes my heart swing in my chest. Heâs not my usual type, I guess, but he does look like that guy Jeff. The first kiss one. The one I donât like to think about. Cooterâs old best friend. I push the thought away. The memory of a first kiss sticks to your heart pretty ferociously; I think thatâs true for everyone, but especially me.
I make my heart stop swinging with a deep breath like Dr. Pat told me to do. I put a good strong wall up around that thought and decide not to go near it again.
Sylvia takes another drag on her cigarette and checks her watch. Doesnât look expectantly at the door to her building, so I donât think Austinâs going to suddenly appear.
Then thatâs it, and as impulsively as I decided to follow them here, I decide to leave again. Itâs a long drive back whenyou canât go much faster than thirty miles an hour, and Iâm supposed to meet Lisha at our favorite diner for french fries and gossip. I will try not to tell her about my weird little drive to this mysterious coupleâs building, but Lisha has one of those really nice faces that makes you want to talk. And the girl always says the right thing, or knows when to say nothing at all. Iâm an open book anyway, and Lisha is a voracious effing reader.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
I go thirty-two miles an hour the whole way to the diner. I consider those extra two miles an hour a tiny victory. Even so, Iâm about an hour late, so Lishaâs already at the Pancake House when I get there, still in her tights and leotard, hair matted to her forehead and knotted into a high bun, prickly with bobby pins. Sheâs set up with hot chocolate and half-eaten waffles and a plate of french fries drenched in mustard and tabasco sauce that sheâs been picking at, hopefully not for too long. Lishaâs caught up in her love affair with Russian fiction, though, and she holds up a finger when I sit down, telling me sheâs got to finish the sentence or chapter but hopefully not the whole book before she can focus on me.
âYou know youâre the latest youâve ever been, right? Do we need an intervention?â she says when she finally looks up at me and bookmarks Crime and Punishment . Iâve told her to give up and finally read The Fountainhead , but sheâs determined. About everything. Always has been.
The waiters know to bring me hot chocolate too, and a fork to help Lisha finish up her binge.
âI think I already had one with Dr. Pat.â
âSo whatâs the conclusion? Are you crazy?â Lisha says. We donât talk in vague metaphors or evasive questions like the rest of the world. We tell it like it is and add on a healthy dose of self-deprecation if things are particularly shitty.
âDr. Pat thinks I am. But that, you know, itâs no big deal and I shouldnât let it affect my life or whatever.â I donât say the word âOCD,â because Dr. Pat didnât actually say thatâs what my problem is, and besides, I canât quite get that terminology out of my mouth. Iâm not ready for the Iâm Bea and I have OCD moment.
I reach into my bag and find pamphlet number three, Where Anxiety Meets Compulsion: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Obsessions. I slide it across the table and get lost in a waffle instead of
Or maybe itâs Austin who is the real pull.
He reminds me of someone else. Like another guy I used to like who had the same skinny unkempt-ness, the same ironic T-shirts. It makes my heart swing in my chest. Heâs not my usual type, I guess, but he does look like that guy Jeff. The first kiss one. The one I donât like to think about. Cooterâs old best friend. I push the thought away. The memory of a first kiss sticks to your heart pretty ferociously; I think thatâs true for everyone, but especially me.
I make my heart stop swinging with a deep breath like Dr. Pat told me to do. I put a good strong wall up around that thought and decide not to go near it again.
Sylvia takes another drag on her cigarette and checks her watch. Doesnât look expectantly at the door to her building, so I donât think Austinâs going to suddenly appear.
Then thatâs it, and as impulsively as I decided to follow them here, I decide to leave again. Itâs a long drive back whenyou canât go much faster than thirty miles an hour, and Iâm supposed to meet Lisha at our favorite diner for french fries and gossip. I will try not to tell her about my weird little drive to this mysterious coupleâs building, but Lisha has one of those really nice faces that makes you want to talk. And the girl always says the right thing, or knows when to say nothing at all. Iâm an open book anyway, and Lisha is a voracious effing reader.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
I go thirty-two miles an hour the whole way to the diner. I consider those extra two miles an hour a tiny victory. Even so, Iâm about an hour late, so Lishaâs already at the Pancake House when I get there, still in her tights and leotard, hair matted to her forehead and knotted into a high bun, prickly with bobby pins. Sheâs set up with hot chocolate and half-eaten waffles and a plate of french fries drenched in mustard and tabasco sauce that sheâs been picking at, hopefully not for too long. Lishaâs caught up in her love affair with Russian fiction, though, and she holds up a finger when I sit down, telling me sheâs got to finish the sentence or chapter but hopefully not the whole book before she can focus on me.
âYou know youâre the latest youâve ever been, right? Do we need an intervention?â she says when she finally looks up at me and bookmarks Crime and Punishment . Iâve told her to give up and finally read The Fountainhead , but sheâs determined. About everything. Always has been.
The waiters know to bring me hot chocolate too, and a fork to help Lisha finish up her binge.
âI think I already had one with Dr. Pat.â
âSo whatâs the conclusion? Are you crazy?â Lisha says. We donât talk in vague metaphors or evasive questions like the rest of the world. We tell it like it is and add on a healthy dose of self-deprecation if things are particularly shitty.
âDr. Pat thinks I am. But that, you know, itâs no big deal and I shouldnât let it affect my life or whatever.â I donât say the word âOCD,â because Dr. Pat didnât actually say thatâs what my problem is, and besides, I canât quite get that terminology out of my mouth. Iâm not ready for the Iâm Bea and I have OCD moment.
I reach into my bag and find pamphlet number three, Where Anxiety Meets Compulsion: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Obsessions. I slide it across the table and get lost in a waffle instead of
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