When there are things you can only talk about with yourself, how to end that discussion? Who to end it? What if you just want it to end? This last question was one she decided to keep to herself. It was a conversation stopper that invariably started up a therapy session of sorts. Therapy and conversation were mutually incompatible. Therapeutically she was someone’s project, some thing to be reformed into not asking herself that question.
“Damn!”, she thought, “Here I go again.” The weather was nice. The company not entirely mind-numbing. She was a success. Quite the life of the party but – or could it be because -somewhat dead inside. It was exhausting to live life as if she was not asking herself ‘that’ question. She did, in myriad versions, like: am I not harsh enough on myself or am I too harsh? She was funny that way, so harsh on herself it bordered on self-mutilation.
Invisible of course,she vanished behind the smoke and mirrors she put up to cover her smoke and mirrors that covered more smoke and mirrors. Until she could not find herself. She was pinched. This was real. He pinched her in the thigh. He asked her to come back. And she did. Come back. A kiss. A pinch back. “Excuse us,” she said, “We’ve got his business to attend to.” He blushed. It was kind of cruel. Still, it made him also feel cool. She was something else and so also they and so also he. Intense even if always tired of being tense.