Heather Moor Is a Therapist

OVER MY HEAD (CABLE CAR)

There are several songs Heather Moor craves sometimes. One is called 'Over My Head (Cable Car)' by The Fray. It's not often she listens to it.

Normally, or lately or whatever, she's been between soul, hiphop and acid house. Whatever the algorithmic radio puts on between those designations. It's only in rare moments she feels like she craves 'Over My Head (Cable Car)', for example, its melody trailing off like a teenage soap opera.

It is that couple colored melody she craves the most. The craving signals her emotions are available ..

Jojo closes the door.

And after he leaves, Heather Moor sits alone quietly in her office.

The content of the conversation escapes and unravels at the same time in her mind -- dissolving and churning -- it rests in her that Jojo's first 'therapeutic account' had been completed. It arrests with optimism for her future as a therapist.

She watches the ending of the evening in the end of summer. From behind her, the window casts its distended square.

She sits transfixed, her pretty, blonde hair draped over her hand, adorned with several slender, silver rings, holding her cheek, and she breathes deeply and sweetly.

She looks at both VR ports empty and unused.

The ground is wet with fresh rain when she steps outside onto the street listening to 'Over My Head (Cable Car).' The sky is dark and dramatic from the departing storm clouds, and in the approaching autumn, rustling in the trees, are memories.

She doesn't take an Auto or Lyft, but chooses to walk down the rail path.

She peers over the tracks. She sees a cloud of drones over the far neighborhood blink abstractly. They are somehow reminiscent of the word 'entropy.'

How often she had felt compulsions to log in, but not now.

She is walking slower than normal, and taking things in. She appreciates the fullness of the path with peoples of every ethnicity, of the same class but of every age, walking, jogging, e-boarding with their friends, with their children or their dogs.

"Watch out!" she hears a call from behind her. She takes a step left to turn to see two women on bicycles. One passes her on the right. The other lets out a drawn out yelp, having through indecision taken the left halfway, and she is slowing down to crash soflty besides Heather.

"I'm so sorry!" the woman says on the ground, her bike on top of her.

Heather asks, "Are you okay?"

".. I'm so sorry," she replies. The other cyclist had stopped ahead of them, saying, "It was my fault! I went the other way!"

Heather reaches down awkwardly to help, but the woman says, "No, I'm good! Thank you .. I'm so sorry."

Heather merely touches the handle bars, unsure whether to fully take the bike.

Heather Moor is meeting her friends, Lucy French and Lisa Mei-ying, at Tanktales for cocktails.

Tanktales is a cocktail bar on Dundas W in a bright, blue building, afrocubist interior. Janis Joplin plays for the diverse set of attractive Millennials. Lucy French and Lisa Mei-ying are sitting in the corner booth, with Cosmopolitans, shining and glittering respectively in their dresses, and they wave to Heather when she pushes through the glass door. She beams theatrically to make up the distance and squeezes past a collection of men to get in.

"Heather Moor!" Lucy says in a leathery, assured voice, "Babe, you made it, thank God!"

"Hi, Heather," Lisa giggles, halfway getting up and pulling her glittering dress down her beautiful thigh, to sit back down -- as a greeting. ("Never mind," she says.)