Two Phobias, One Night

Sandwiched between two brownstone houses is a retro café with poor WIFI connection. Spencer Griffin arrives at nine AM believing he might go into cardiac arrest.

His psychiatrist has given him an assignment; to socialize with people and go into more public places. It is the first step to getting better. Well, it sure doesn't feel that way.

With his heart beating like a tribal war drum, Spencer sits at the only table that is already occupied by a stranger in the otherwise empty café.

"I'm flattered that you chose to sit here, but can I help you with something?"

The man has a septum piercing and thick eyebrows which hang over downward slanted eyes. His confident posture and broad shoulders gives Spencer an indication that this man is everything he's not.

"Today is Monday. I mean, yes. If you want to."

He arches an eyebrow. "That depends on what it is."

"My psychiatrist says I need to mingle with people to get better. But I understand if you're too embarrassed to be seen with me. I mean, I look like Arthur the Aardvark and you're just gorgeous."

The man doesn't speak.

"I'm fucked in the head, really. I have severe social anxiety disorder, toxiphobia and paranoid delusions borderline schizophrenia. And I am also very depressed at times."

Spencer half-expects him to leave, or to call the police, because if he's being honest this isn't going so well.

Instead, the man says, "You aren't depressed. You have a depression."

"Huh?"

"Seems to me like you identify yourself with your mental illnesses. You are your own person, all disorders aside."

"Oh." It takes Spencer a full minute to compose himself. "You're smart, too."

"More like experienced." He chuckles. "My sister has borderline personality disorder."

Some knots in Spencers' stomach resolves. Talking like this still makes him uneasy, but it doesn't trigger a panic attack, which is a start.

"What's your name?"

"Dylan."

"I like that. Dylan Thomas is my favorite poet. 'Do not go gentle into that night'." Spencer recites. "Sometimes I like to write poetry. I'd read you one, but they're really bad. Like really bad. You'd probably leave and I don't want you to because I'm finding this conversation really helpful."

"I don't plan on leaving anytime soon." Dylan says and, as if to prove a point, takes his jacket off. There's a small tattoo of a semicolon on his wrist. "Do you have a name or do I have to guess?"

"It's Spencer."

"Can I buy you something to drink, Spencer?"

"Don't." His voice wavers. "The clerk will poison it."

"Why would she do that?"

"She has stared at me from the moment I got here."

"It's probably because you haven't bought anything. They don't like non-paying customers." Dylan replies and downs the rest of his Americano. "Okay, so where do you feel safe buying coffee?"

"Grocery stores. And at my sisters' diner, if someone tastes my drink first."

Dylan stands up. "Then let's go there."

"Why?"

"Because I want more coffee, but I won't drink alone."

Spencer follows him out of the café with trembling hands. He ties them in his jacket pockets and takes a deep breath. Followed by another.