The Magnet

An appointment with Dr. Kinkaid

-You are late for your appointment, young man- said Dr. Kinkaid, looking at me from the gap between her glasses and her eyelids - You are lucky my next patient cancelled at the last minute.

Of course I'm late, I thought. Not only is the traffic bloody murder, my "special circumstances" cause me to be late ALL THE TIME. But then again, that's kind of the reason why I'm here, so I guess it will come up during the session. So, as usual, instead of explaining myself, I just bowed my head like an idiot and apologized.

-Just make sure it doesn't happen again, young man. I don't refund missed appointments and I don't think your mother will appreciate you wasting her money, rich as she may be...

Again, I just stood there speechless like a retard.

-You can take a seat. I don't expect you to be standing through the whole session.

I plopped on the couch, which gave a soft "pufffffffff" under my weight.

-Let's see, let's see...-said Dr. Kinkaid idly while flipping through some papers.- Hmmm... a nervous breakdown like the one you had is not normal, especially at your age...

Is there a kind of nervous breakdown that IS normal? I thought, but thankfully, the doctor continued before I could speak and reveal myself as an asshole besides an idiot.

-Well, it is clear that something is troubling you, young man, and not being able to let it out is what caused your... incident, shall we call it? So, I want you to tell me all about it. You don't need to worry, you are free from judgement and your story is safe with me. I am sworn not to tell anybody. Go ahead, young man, tell me about it. And don't. You. Ommit. A. Single. Detail.

-Um...okeeeeyy...-I said, trying to figure out if I should be worried about her tone of voice- I think it all started when my dad passed away...

As it turns out, my parents had gone out to Ibiza on their sixth or seventh honeymoon, I'm not entirely sure, I lost count after the third one, and dad had a fatal cardiac arrest, so my mother had to spend a week making arrangements to repatriate his body, only to have it (him? What's the pronoun for a dead person?) cremated the next day.

So we were back home after the funeral and Mom called me to her room. While undoing her hairdo, she told me to take a seat, and surprise surprise, there was not a chair in the room save for the one that she was using, so I had to quickly decide whether to sit on the bed or cross my legs on the floor. I know, the bed is the obvious choice, but... well, I DO tend to overthink, perhaps that's my problem. Anyway, I chose the bed like a normal person.

Mom's dress choices stopped fazing me long ago, so I had thought nothing of her look that day, but in the silence of her bedroom, while watching her long black mane of hair cascade down her back once she undid her bun, I kind of realized her attire may not have been entirely appropriate for a funeral, as the backline of her dress was so low and the leg slit so high that the only way for that outfit to actually work was to go commando.