“Hi Missy.”
“Don’t call me Missy.”
“Okay, Melissa. How’ve you been? Have you missed me?”
She looks at me, sideways, like she doesn’t quite trust me, but then she ventures her answer.
“A little.”
“A little? Like you miss my sense of humor? You miss my Yankee charm?”
“I miss kissing you.”
That caught me off guard. “I miss that too,” and I walked over to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of water. I wished it was wine, something to calm my nerves, but she didn’t drink wine. Only water.
“So how’s it going with that ex boyfriend of yours? I can’t remember his name.”
“It’s Tom, and he’s not an ex anymore.”
“I don’t want to know his name. I’ll just forget it again. Do you have sex? Don’t answer that. I suppose you do. You both got HPV. He’s the fucker who gave it to you, so no risk, eh? Not anymore.”
She looked hurt now. “We fuck, yes. Is that what you wanted to hear me say? We fuck, and I’m happy.”
“You could die, you know. I read something about it turning into cervical cancer.”
“That’s the other kind of HPV. I won’t get cancer.”
So you think, I wanted to say, but I knew she was probably right. She was the doctor, and I was just a sales guy. Not a very good one at the moment. “So you want to kiss me again?” I asked.
“No. Not right now, anyway.”
I must have pissed her off more than I intended. I wanted to kiss her again, but then what good was it? What could it lead to? Instead I played her some new music I had found on the internet, talked about her family, about the books she was reading, and it took a good twenty minutes before I could look at her apologetically, and then we kissed awkwardly like kids on the playground.
“I can’t kiss you any more,” she said.
“Any more tonight, or any more ever?”
“Any more ever. We’ll start messing around and then what? You know we can’t ever sleep together.”
“So that’s it? It comes down to sex?”
“It comes down to that fact that Tom is nicer to me.”
“Tom who?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Don’t call me Missy.”
“Okay, Melissa. How’ve you been? Have you missed me?”
She looks at me, sideways, like she doesn’t quite trust me, but then she ventures her answer.
“A little.”
“A little? Like you miss my sense of humor? You miss my Yankee charm?”
“I miss kissing you.”
That caught me off guard. “I miss that too,” and I walked over to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of water. I wished it was wine, something to calm my nerves, but she didn’t drink wine. Only water.
“So how’s it going with that ex boyfriend of yours? I can’t remember his name.”
“It’s Tom, and he’s not an ex anymore.”
“I don’t want to know his name. I’ll just forget it again. Do you have sex? Don’t answer that. I suppose you do. You both got HPV. He’s the fucker who gave it to you, so no risk, eh? Not anymore.”
She looked hurt now. “We fuck, yes. Is that what you wanted to hear me say? We fuck, and I’m happy.”
“You could die, you know. I read something about it turning into cervical cancer.”
“That’s the other kind of HPV. I won’t get cancer.”
So you think, I wanted to say, but I knew she was probably right. She was the doctor, and I was just a sales guy. Not a very good one at the moment. “So you want to kiss me again?” I asked.
“No. Not right now, anyway.”
I must have pissed her off more than I intended. I wanted to kiss her again, but then what good was it? What could it lead to? Instead I played her some new music I had found on the internet, talked about her family, about the books she was reading, and it took a good twenty minutes before I could look at her apologetically, and then we kissed awkwardly like kids on the playground.
“I can’t kiss you any more,” she said.
“Any more tonight, or any more ever?”
“Any more ever. We’ll start messing around and then what? You know we can’t ever sleep together.”
“So that’s it? It comes down to sex?”
“It comes down to that fact that Tom is nicer to me.”
“Tom who?”
“I’m leaving.”
4 comments:
Antidepressents don't really work, do they.
Come on, Doc, don't diss the pills you peddle; it's probably more because I listen to too much Ray LaMontagne, Cat Power, and Radiohead. Or does long term use of Ambien acts as a depressant? Or maybe the antidepressants are working great and I'd be an absolute wreck without them, never showing up for work, or taking a flying leap from my 25th floor window. Maybe I should try hypnosis next. Or accupuncture. Or maybe a happy coach; you know, some sort of sunshine counselor like those motivational choaches that swing by your place and tell you to get off your ass, but a sunshine counselor wears bright yellow clothing, has a skip in his step and whistles a perky tune. I think I just described a canary. I could get a bird.
You never wrote me back, by the way...
No, I did not.
I have a draft in my mailbox from 4/17 though, then a lot of stuff started happening and I didn't get to finishing it. One grandma dying (but not dead yet), then another grandma dead and a trip to Chicago for a funeral, and one to the east coast coming anyday now. Finding out how my grandmother was kept like a bird, actually, by the man she was married to for 20 years, who didn't even leave money for her basic care when he died the week before (it went to his kids). Seeing all my uncles all torn up over finding out this about their mother. Thoughts of how my parents are going to end up divorced over dealing with both of their moms dying at the same time and what part of the country to be in when during the whole thing. And being pretty sick myself for a week there. Basically I haven't had much time to get a lot of stuff done, and when i do there's plenty of everyday things backed up.
Oh, and by the way, here's my antidepressant prescription: Get over yourself.
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