Dust In The Light

Do you hear it behind those words?

"How's it been?"

"The same."

"Oh? So your Gran getting that painting wasn't news? You texted me at three in the morning so relieved that she'd finally stop harping on it now that she had it."

"Well, it was just her getting excited at the prospect of bragging to friends that she owned a bloody four million dollar piece of blank canvas. Contemporary art is just-"

"Eve, we are not having that discussion. Not now."

"Whatever you say, Christoph."

"Stop. You know I hate that."

"Because it sounds like a sixty-year old professor?"

His eyes dart up to my face in an exasperated glare.

I shrug.

"Back to business. Have you been taking the medication?"

I nod. I didn't, but I'm not going to tell you that. I know I should be a good patient, but there is nothing wrong with me. I just need to keep believing that. Let me live that lie.

"Good."

I watch guiltily as a small smile spreads over his face.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Our sessions are probably the highlight of each week.

You talk to me. You understand what I say. You don't find me silly. I probably am, though.

I adore it when we recall something funny that makes you laugh.

You don't really ever laugh. Just give me that befuddled look of confusion when something's funny.

It's alright. But not as nice as it is when you laugh.

I remember the time your sister had too much Smirnoff on your birthday night, the first year we met.

She went on and on about some fairly amusing stories about your childhood.

I still don't believe you ran stark naked at the beach trying to catch tadpoles in the rain. There aren't any tadpoles at the beach. It's salt water.

Sometimes when I can't sleep, I wonder if, in another life, a different one, where I wasn't like this and you weren't my psychiatrist, we could be a little bit happier. Maybe get a garden swing, or a porch swing. Gran doesn't have one at the manor. Or get a dog and name him Cookie Dough. A cat? Maybe name the cat Cake. I don't know.

We could have a nice house. Small and cosy would be enough.

Maybe children will run around it one day. They would be the most beautiful children in the world.

But that would never happen, would it?
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••
"Find someone who really understands you, Eve. It'll help."

Christopher rises from the armchair
and retrieves his glasses from the coffee table. He slips them on and looks down at me as his hands gather the papers from the table surface.

Dark brown eyes pierce through glass, searching my face for a response.

I look at the dark Harlequin wallpaper in the background, the arrangement of dyed blue roses in Grandma's beloved Ming vase, the rich leather grain of his Burberry briefcase on the floor.

Anywhere but him as I answer, "I have you."

He nods. It's been the same answer to the same question since our first session.

At first, it was the mutual understanding between doctor and patient.

Now, I don't think he ever grasps the full meaning of them.