Fall

Finding

the Fall Foliage

Fragrant on the Floor

Fresh beneath my Feet

Fills me with a Feeling 

of Fanciful Felicity

as I Feast my eyes

on the Fervent hues

of the Flora of my

Fortuitous home

Forged by Fealty

now in a Forlorn state

on this eve of Hallow's Eve.

Lament

I dream dreams

Of things seldom achieved,

Desires left unfulfilled,

Hopes left deserted.

So oft occurs 

Said tragedy,

This soul 

Crushed by disappointment,

That I am left 

To wander 

in endless darkness

And wonder...

What's it all for?

Why bother 

To dream dreams 

Of things 

Forgotten,

Like faraway 

Dusty roads,

So seldom travelled 

As to be useless 

And easily cast aside.

Easily cast aside.

Cast aside.

Aside 

Other forgotten dreams

Dreamed by

You and I.

The Roman Daughter

I watched my mother fidget nervously in her seat. I knew she was nervous because of the way she picked at her cuticles; it was a horrible habit that I thought she had dropped. Guess I thought wrong. I looked around the room for something to distract myself with before my temper ran away and I yelled at her for her stupid habit. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to look at. Ergo why I hate waiting rooms. It was pristine and white and boring. None of the potted plants were real and the choice of décor was beyond drab; it was downright sad. None of the magazines, of which there were many, interested me and since I was under the impression that mom and I were going to the movies, I didn’t brother to bring a book or my Nintendo DS. Thanks a lot, Mom.

I could hear the lady behind the receptionist texting and I was appalled at how she ignored the ringing phone on her desk. Just as well, her nasal valley girl voice was like nails on a chalkboard to me. Sometimes, when the ringing got really insistent and irritating, she would simply pick up the receiver and drop it back in its cradle carelessly. Well, thank goodness for small miracles. I was just wondering what part of Desolation of Smaug I was missing when the door that wasn’t the one my mother and I entered through opened and a woman stepped through.

She checked the clipboard in her hands. I noticed she held the clipboard in her right and I guess there was a pen in her left. “Martha Ramirez and Net Colonel?” she called out. I was glad that she pronounced it correctly. My mother stood up right away, my hand in hers. I took that as my cue to stand up as well. The woman approached us and I saw her tuck a pen in her breast pocket with her left. She wasn’t young but she wasn’t old. I guessed that she was in her 40s. Her blond her was tied back into a tight bun that rested on the very crown of her skull and she wore red cat-eye glasses. She had a kind smile on her face and I smiled back when I realize that, except for a bad of mascara and eyeliner, she wasn’t wearing any make-up. My kind of woman.

When the stranger offered my mother her hand (right hand, I noted), Mom took in with both of hers, unnecessarily, I thought. “Its lovely to finally meet you,” the woman was saying. She turned to shake my hand; her left this time. I smiled and accepted the gesture. “You must be Nat,” she said. “I’m Dr. Quinn. Please to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said politely. “Is your first name Harley, by any chance?”

Dr. Quinn chuckled. “I get that a lot. Sadly, I’m much older than that Dr. Quinn.” She winked at me. I took some slight pleasure in my mother’s completely blank look. She had no idea what we were talking about. “Do you know why you’re here, Nat?” Dr. Quinn said.

I wish she had been more specific. Because specifically, no, I had no idea why I was there. But I reflected back on my behavior from the past year. The late night phone calls with my boyfriend, the weekend-long visits to my best friend’s college campus where all kinds of unethical and possible illegal experimentation took place, the what my father referred to as “talking backness,” the emotional tantrums, and the teary visits to my mother. So you could say I had some inkling of why my mother lied about going to the movies and brought me to see a psychologist.

I crossed my arms and shrugged. “I guess,” was my reply. Yeah, that seemed about right.

“Good,” Dr. Quinn replied. I was sure that in that moment Dr. Quinn would send me into her office so she could have a moment alone to talk about me to my mother. Instead, she told my mother that she was free to wait in the waiting room for me but was otherwise not expected to return for another hour. Then she gestured for me to follow her and led me into her office. And I did, but not before hugging my mother good-bye. She may infuriate me from time to time, but mom was an innocent party in the mess that had become my life as of late, and I knew she was only doing what she thought was best for me. She was a good mother, and who knows? Maybe there was something to this therapy stuff.

Dr. Quinn’s office was much more welcoming that the waiting room; it was stuffed with mahogany bookshelves lined with volumes upon volumes. I scanned for her name on the spines of her collection, hoping to find out what her first name was. Maybe her first name really was Harley and she just opted to not share that information with her patients. Or maybe her fist name was Frances? That would be just as juicy. I mean, what are the odds that her last name was Quinn, she was blond, and she was a psychologist? You don’t get such a major nerdy coincidence without some kind of payoff.

Behind me, Dr. Quinn had already set her old school kitchen time and was waiting patiently behind her desk. I noticed there were no family photos on her desk; just a crystal dog paperweight, a very ornate letter opener, a box of tissues next to a hand sanitizer pump, an outdated looking Dell desktop, and a gold plated name plate that read simple “Dr. Quinn, Ph. D.” I tried to hide my displeasure at her less than revealing desk contents as I took a seat in front of it. The wall behind Dr. Quinn was no less professional than her desk; framed university degrees upon framed university degrees. I was starting to rethink Dr. Quinn’s age; 40s may be too young for someone with so many degrees.

“So, Nat,” Dr. Quinn started, opening a manila file and ruffling through its contents.

“Look,” I interrupted. “You seem like a nice lady and all, but I really shouldn’t be here.” I stood up.

Dr. Quinn smiled again. “What makes you think that?”

“Because there’s no way my parents can afford –” I gestured at the room, with its expensive fleur-de-lis wallpaper and massive burgundy velvet chaise. “ – this!”

“Have a seat,” Dr. Quinn said; it was request, not a command. I did as she asked, arms and legs crossed. Dr. Quinn proceeded to explain that my parents found her through a student led organization that covered a majority of the costs of therapists through grant funding for cases that showed great need, especially great financial need. “So, you see, Nat,” Dr. Quinn concluded. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not expensive and most of the costs are already covered.”

I sulked. There goes my one selfless reason to talk myself out of therapy. I heaved a sigh, defeated. “Alright,” I said. “So, how does this work?”

“Well, since this is our first time meeting,” Dr. Quinn said. “I figured you could use the opportunity to get to know me a little better.” I raised a suspicious eyebrow at this. Dr. Quinn pointed at the open file on her desk. “After all, I know plenty about you.”

I scoffed. “What you think you know is just someone else’s version of me.”

Dr. Quinn nodded. “You’re right. And you’ll have plenty of opportunities to rectify that. But for today, you have the remaining 52 minutes to ask me anything you want.”

I tapped my chin, considering the offer. “Anything?” I asked, my lips curling up into a smile.

“Anything,” Dr. Quinn repeated. “Except for my first name.” I groaned and Dr. Quinn laughed. “All in good time, my dear,” she promised.

Realizing I had nothing to lose, I launched into a tirade of questions. I found out that Dr. Quinn was not currently married but had been married twice before; the first ended within two years and the second lasted about 10 years and resulted in a son about my age named Geoff, who is studying to be an engineer. When I questioned why the two divorces, she said that her first marriage happened when she was too young and still in college and regrets it immensely whereas her second marriage ended because her ex couldn’t deal with the fact that his wife makes more money than him. When questioned if she was seeing anybody, she said “Not currently.” When asked if she smoked pot, she revealed that yes she did, regularly. I nearly clapped in delight at the news. I found out that her favorite movie is Gladiator and she has a passion for karaoke. She had an Irish Setter named Henry growing up and suffered greatly when he passed away. And I found out that she became a therapist because her mother was diagnosed with clinical depression when she was in her teens.

My heart sunk when the kitchen time went off. I followed Dr. Quinn back to the waiting room where mom was, in the same seat I left her in. The only difference now was that there was a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of her and she was flipping through a magazine. She stoop up and gave me a small wave.

“Same time next week, Nat?” Dr. Quinn said at her doorway.

“Sure thing,” I mumbled casually as I walked towards my mother who had a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and a second cup, for me presumably. I guess she opted to leave the waiting room for a while. I gave her a small kiss on the cheek and thanked her, which I immediately regretted when her eyes started to water.

The following week, the waiting room wait was a bit shorter. I hugged my mom again as I followed Dr. Quinn into her office and as soon as I took my seat, she winded up her kitchen timer.

“So, lets talk about you today, Nat,” she said. She was quite for a moment as she flipped through my file. I wondered if she was expecting some kind of protest out of me; I gave her none. I did still cross my arms and legs, though. I knew she must have been keeping an eye out for that kind of body language (therapists do that, right?) so I tried to stay consistently rebellious. Or at least look it. “Okay,” Dr. Quinn said at last. “How would you describe your relationship with your mother?”

I hesitated. “Well, I love my mom, but she and I don’t always see eye to eye. It’s been that way for as long as I could remember. Even when I was little, I would argue with her about the smallest thing.”

Dr. Quinn nodded and jotted down some quick notes on a small yellow pad. I noticed she wrote in cursive. “How would you describe your mother?”

I shrugged. “Typical in some ways but not so typical in other ways. She certainly cares about my brother and me. I don’t doubt that she would take a bullet for us.”  I thought about my words for a moment. “She’s a little more open and encourages proper communication. I think I like that best about her.”

Dr. Quinn looked up at me over the top of her glasses. “And your father doesn’t encourage communication?”

I froze. She didn’t waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. I looked away, somehow unable to face her now; I had already guessed that she must have had some inkling of what issues I was facing. She made that very clear last time. But the fact that I couldn’t reveal my deep dark secret to her myself hurt. I felt betrayed. Although whom I felt betrayed by was unclear. Did I feel betrayed by my mother? Surely Dr. Quinn heard it from her first. Or by Dr. Quinn herself? I scoffed at how silly I was being. Of course the traitor here was my father. I wouldn’t be here without him, after all.

“What’s on your mind?” Dr. Quinn asked. She had her elbows on the desk and her chin was resting on her interlinked hands. She really looked like a therapist in that position. Good; I should probably start thinking of her as my therapist.

I glanced down at the yellow notepad resting on her desk. “If I tell you, will you write it down?”

Dr. Quinn’s interlinked hands dropped to her desk. Shit. She doesn’t look like a therapist anymore. “I would like to,” she replied. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

I shrugged. “Whatever,” I said. “There is still such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality.” It wasn’t a question.

“There is,” Dr. Quinn said, nodding. She picked up her pencil. “So, what should I write down? What were you thinking about?” She looked more like a teacher now.

“I forgot,” I lied.  If I told her one part of it, I would have to tell her the whole thing, and I couldn’t have her knowing that I thought her a traitor after only one week of knowing her.

“Would you like to talk about your father?” Dr. Quinn asked. She still hadn’t written anything down.

“Not particularly.”

Dr. Quinn smiled. It was starting to get on my nerves. “Can you tell me why?”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s not worth talking about.”

“He is if he’s causing you any grief.” Dr. Quinn sounded sad.

“He’s certainly a pain in my ass,” I said. My left foot was twitching impatiently. “Him and his fucking wife.”

“Yes, your mother mentioned that your father remarried.” Dr. Quinn hesitated. “Should we talk about your stepmother, then?” She positioned her pen over the notepad, like a Musketeer wielding his sword, ready to strike at any moment. In his instant, I guess the pen is mightier.

I shrugged again. It was becoming an exercise. “Not much to tell,” I said, averting my eyes as Dr. Quinn’s pen danced on the notepad. “I don’t refer to her ad my stepmother. She’s just someone my dad chose to marry.” I hesitated, choosing my next words carefully. “I don’t dislike Emily. And I have no real issues with her. I’m indifferent to her, really. But I certainly don’t like what she represents.”

“And what does she represent?” Dr. Quinn asked. I didn’t say anything; I walked right into that one, I suppose. It was a good question and I had an answer. I just didn’t feel like sharing. How juvenile would it be to hear a 22 year old say that Daddy’s new tail was a sign of his betrayal? There was there word again: betrayal. Maybe I was on to something.

“Nat?” Dr. Quinn asked, her pen hovering over her notepad again. I turned my cheek to her, hoping she would get the drift. She must have understood my refusal to speak on the matter because she dropped her pen and linked her hands across the desk, like a schoolgirl. I imagined Dr. Quinn in a pleated skirt, Mary Janes, a button up blouse, a yellow ascot, and pigtails. The image immediately turned lewd and I resisted the urge to slap myself. Pervert. 

“That’s an interesting name,” Dr. Quinn said thoughtfully. “Who named you?”

“My father,” I replied automatically. I always get asked that stupid question and the origin of my name was a safe enough topic, even if it led right back to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. “He was a big fan of Nat King Cole.”

“And is it short for something?”

I rolled my eyes and smiled at Dr. Quinn. “You know it is.”

Dr. Quinn returned my smile just as her kitchen timer went off. I jumped, having forgotten about it. Used to the timer’s shrill, Dr. Quinn turned it off – or whatever you do to shut timers up – and led me out her office. Mom was in the office with coffee and donuts again. Remembering what I had said to Dr. Quinn earlier, I was quite happy to see her. She was a good mother.  I felt guilty that I was making her suffer so much with these weekly runs to the therapist.

“It’s a good name,” Dr. Quinn said to me in lieu of a good-bye. “You should use it more often.”

We met again the following Monday. My waiting room waits were becoming shorter every time, though I noticed that the receptionist wasn’t any more productive than usual. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone else exit Dr. Quinn’s office or enter the waiting room.

“Mom?” I said. “Am I Dr. Quinn’s only patient?”

“You’re not her patient,” Mom said. She was getting into the habit of bringing her crocheting with her to these appointments. I had been watching her count loops for the last several minutes. She glanced at me from above her reading classes. “You’re her guest. And I wouldn’t know, dear, although if I had to guess, I’d say she sees plenty of people throughout the week.”

I was about to ask Mom what she was making when the door to Dr. Quinn’s office opened. I checked the time; 3:55pm. The woman was like clockwork. Mom didn’t bother to get up that time and Dr. Quinn waited for me at her doorway. I pecked Mom on the cheek and left her to crochet.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Nat,” Dr. Quinn said. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” She walked over to her desk and whispered a few choice words into the receiver. It seemed rude to listen, even if by accident, so I occupied myself by studying the paintings on the walls that surrounded the chaise. I had never noticed them before that moment. There were a few pieces by Artemisia Gentileschi that I was particularly interested in. I was examining The Roman Daughter by Rembrandt with equal parts fascination and disgust when I heard Dr. Quinn say a very audible goodbye into her cell. I turned to look at her and she greeted me with a smile and gestured to the seat in front of her.

“Who was that?” I asked casually as I took my seat and crossed my legs.

“My ex-husband,” she replied. She was jotting down something on her desk calendar. I kept quite, figuring that she would share more if she wanted to. I tugged absentmindedly on my laces aglet. Then I started wondering how the hell I knew what an aglet was. “He wants to take Geoff for the weekend but the two of us had plans.”

I nodded. “Do you get along with your ex?”

Dr. Quinn took a seat, a look on her face that suggested she had to think about her response. “I suppose, most of the time, yes. At least in front of Geoff we do.” I secretly wondered why a young man in his twenties would need to be given the impression that his divorced parents got along but then decided it was none of my business how one couple handles the separation versus another. I doubted there was any real right way to do it. I watched Dr. Quinn set the timer. The wall clock behind her head read 3 o’clock. Damn, she was good.  “So what about your parents?” Dr. Quinn was asking me. “Do they get along?”

I smiled; she waited to set the timer before asking the question. How professional. My arms were folded lazily across my lap. “They did at first,” I replied. “Too well, if you ask me.”

Dr. Quinn’s pen was flying over her yellow notepad. “How so?”

I chortled. “They were fucking well after the divorce. Anytime Mom came to town, under the alibi that she wanted to see me of course, the moaning and the squeaking mattress sounds started. It was seriously annoying.”

“Were you bothered by their sexual encounters?” Dr. Quinn asked.

I considered that for a moment. “I mean, they’re adults and they could do whatever they want, but when it first started, it gave me false hope that they might get back together. That never happened of course.”

“Did these encounters maker it harder for you to accept the divorce?” Dr. Quinn’s pen hovered in wait.

“Maybe... At the very least, it took me longer to accept what had happened.” I watched Dr. Quinn’s pen dance. “How old was your son,” I asked suddenly. “When you and your husband divorced?”

“He was 12,” she replied. She looked at me from across her desk. I just noticed she had blue eyes, like my mother. And like Harley. I really needed to find out the good doctor’s first name.

“I was 14,” I said. I thought back to my first Christmas without Dad and how Mom and I sat in front of the lit Christmas tree that we decorated together, like we do every year, with hot coco in our hands and tears on our cheeks. It was the first time we had really discussed the separation and it had driven us both to crying. My brother came home from work to that scene and called us both ridiculous. My mom immediately abandoned me and followed my brother into his room. He was always her favorite, just as I was Dad’s favorite. For a time, anyway. I couldn’t say that was still true.

“This may seem like an odd question,” Dr. Quinn said. “But what was, to you, the most difficult part of the divorce.”

I sighed. It wasn’t so much an odd question as it was a difficult one. Nothing about a divorce was particularly good, unless you’re the party getting alimony. “Well,” I said carefully. “I guess that first punch in the gut when they announced it was the hardest blow. It came out of nowhere. There was nothing about their behavior that suggested to me that things were bad between them. They just sat me down in the backyard one day after school and bluntly stated that they were getting divorced.” I scoffed. “At least at the time, but I guess hindsight is always 20/20. Anyway, when they told me, it was like they were speaking another language. I had no idea what was happening in that moment. That may sound cliché but its true. I don’t even remember what else they told me that afternoon.” I fought to keep the tears in. Dr. Quinn offered a tissue. I accepted.

“I hope this goes without saying, but you can cry in here, Nat,” Dr. Quinn told me.

I smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t want my mother to see that I’ve been crying. She worries enough.” I scrunched up the tissue into a ball. “I also hate crying.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It hurts. The tears sting my eyes and then I can’t breathe because my nose gets all stuffed up.” I shook my head. “I’m an ugly crier.”

“Do you cry often?” Dr. Quinn said.

I scoffed. “All the damn time.” I wasn’t afraid to admit that. I never considered crying a sign

“Do you remember the last time you cried?” Dr. Quinn’s pen was having a field day. I thought of the Quick-Quotes Quill from Harry Potter. Dr. Quinn needed one of those. I smiled to myself: Dr. Quinn needs a Quick-Quotes Quill to quickly take her quiz on quips. Try saying that five times fast.

“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “A few weeks ago when I was on the phone with my boyfriend.”

“He upset you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But it’s not what you think. We were talking about my father, and he was making me face things I wasn’t ready to face. He was speaking truths I’ve been trying to ignore.”

Dr. Quinn gave her pen a break and considered my words for a moment. “Why would you not want to face the truth?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I was trying to protect myself.”

“From?”

I hesitated. “From disappointment.”

The timer went off. Dr. Quinn didn’t stop it right away like she usually does. She was looking right at me and I was made a bit uncomfortable by her penetrating gaze. After a few seconds, she looked away and stopped the timer. She smiled and stood up. I followed her to the door. “Thank you, Nat,” Dr. Quinn said, holding the door open for me. “Same time next week?”

Mom had her usual coffee and donuts ready. I laughed and accepted them. Brownie batter was in season and that shit was like crack to me. On the ride home, I asked Mom if my father knew about the therapy. Her hesitation was confirmation enough, but I was glad when she admitted to me that father was in the dark. I shrugged in response. I wasn’t sure why I even asked.

A week later, before I entered Dr. Quinn’s office, I asked Mom to bring me back tea and a croissant in place of the coffee and donuts. I could feel myself gaining weight. Dr. Quinn wasted no time today. She set her timer as soon as I took my seat. I crossed my legs but kept my arms stretched out across the backrest of the seats. I was starting to feel how uncomfortable these chairs actually were.

“So, Nat,” Dr. Quinn started happily. I noticed she was wearing red lipstick today. “Why don’t you tell me a little about your relationship with your boyfriend today?”

I was surprised. I was sure she was going to jump right into my bit about disappointment from last week.  “Alright,” I said casually. “We’ve been together for a couple of years now. I met him when I was still with my ex, who I left because he turned out to be an unfaithful dickhead.” I don’t know what ever gave me the impression that I could use that sort of language in here, but Dr. Quinn never stopped me.

“And have you ever been with any women?”

“Once,” I admitted, though I wasn’t sure how that was relevant. “I was visiting a friend at her campus and things got... interesting.”

“Does your boyfriend know about this?”

“Of course.”

“And how does he feel about it?”

I shrugged. “He encourages sexual experimentation.”

Dr. Quinn jotted something down. “And have you ever been sexually exploited by

your father?”

“What the fuck? Holy shit, no, of course not!” I crossed my arms. “That’s sick. 

My dad may be an asshole, but he’s not capable of something like that”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Quinn said. “Its just one of those things I have to ask.” She wrote something down and the looked up at me. “Was there ever a time you were scared of your father?”

I hesitated. After her last question, I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell Dr. Quinn. I bit my bottom lip. Big mistake.

“You can tell me, Nat.”

With a sigh, I uncrossed my legs and arms. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. “There was one time,” I said quietly to the rug beneath my feet. “I was sharing a bed with my dad one night. We were prone to doing from time to time, ever since I was little. There was never anything wrong with that. And then in the middle of the night, Dad woke up and... He started to grope me.”

Dr. Quinn waited patiently. “What happened next?”

I sat back in the chair. “Well, he didn’t say anything. I don’t even know how awake he really was at that moment so I didn’t know what to think. So, I just pushed his hand away. I had to do that two more times before he finally stopped trying.” I felt tears sting the back of my eyes. I rubbed them. “The next day, he apologized and said that he was asleep and didn’t really realize who it was. He swore that he would never do such a thing a purpose and begged for my forgiveness.”

“Did you believe him?”

I nodded. “He was already asleep when I went in and it was Mom’s idea that I sleep with him that night. Besides, he sounded really sincere. Like I said, my dad’s an asshole, but he’s not capable of something that.”

Dr. Quinn nodded and wrote something down. “Last time,” she said. Here it comes. “You said you wanted to protect yourself from disappointment. Could you please elaborate?”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I may was well confide in her. “I guess I just feel like...” I searched for the words. “I guess I feel like my father stopped being my father. And my boyfriend pretty much figured that out on his own, but I didn’t want to own up to it.”

           

“Why not?”

           

“My dad and I had a great relationship when I was a kid. I loved and looked up to him and we always got along. All of that changed after the divorce and when I moved in with him. He started depending on me too much and I saw a side to him that I had never seen before. He was sleeping around and drinking more. Being reckless with himself and his life. And a lot of this was expected behavior, I suppose. But I figured having me around would soften the blow. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if my presence made things worse. He basically forgot that I still needed him and he stopped being a father to me.” A tear escaped from the outer corner of my eye and I swatted it away immediately.

           

“Would you say you feel betrayed by your father?” Dr. Quinn said. I looked right at her. Damn it, this shit again?

           

“Maybe,” I said. I was suddenly exhausted.

           

“Did nothing change after your father remarried?” Dr. Quinn asked.

           

I laughed at that. “Oh yeah, they changed” I said. “They got worse. He started asking me to do things around the house that he himself wasn’t doing. He accuses me of being lazy even though I’m trying to balance work, college, extracurriculars, and a social life. Trying to build a future for myself. He’s not helping me financially. I mean, the nicest thing he’s done for me is not ask me to contribute to rent!”

           

“And have you told him any of this?” Dr. Quinn said, her pen hard at work now.

           

I shook my head. “I’ve tried. A couple of times and in varying degrees of anger. Nothing seems to get through to him.”

           

“Has your father ever approached you about anything bothering him?”

I realized that Dr. Quinn had me exactly where she wanted me. I was spilling my heart out over a subject I didn’t want to talk about not three weeks ago. That didn’t really seem to matter anymore. “He sat me down once or twice,” I said. “But every time it was about making his wife feel more comfortable. You know they’re sleeping in my mattress right?”

           

Dr. Quinn looked up at me. “And where do you sleep?”

           

“On the couch. Although if we didn’t have that thing, I guess I’d be sleeping on the floor.” I shrugged. “I try hard not be ungrateful. And it’s really not that uncomfortable.”

The timer went off and Dr. Quinn stopped it. She stood and rearranged some papers on her desk. She had, I noticed in that moment, a nice rack. I tore my eyes away and followed her to the door when she gestured for me to do so. “Thank you, Nat,” she said, with her usual friendly smile on her face. “I’ll see you next week.”

           

Later, I called my boyfriend from my mother’s house phone and I told him about today. He had been getting bits and pieces of my sessions with Dr. Quinn, but I was refraining from going into detail since there was nothing I was revealing to Dr. Quinn that Danny didn’t already know. He was glad I was finally opening up to the good doctor.

           

“If you had done that from the beginning, you would have been done by now,” he teased.

           

“Fuck off,” I said. He laughed. We’re well past the point of getting upset over something as meaningless as cursing. “I still don’t know why the hell I’m in therapy.”

           

“Because, babe,” he said in his most matter-of-fact tone. “You won’t talk to your parents and there’s only so much I could do. You need an objective party to hear all of this.”
           

“But you are an objective part,” I whined, pulling at the fringes of my comforter. I was lying in bed in my purple Donatello tee that was about 3 sizes too big and a pair of my most unattractive underwear.

           

“The hell I am,” Dan said. “Every time you vent to me about your fucking father, I want to punch him in his stupid face.” I laughed. He was right. We could never talk about my dad without one or both of us getting over-emotional.

           

“I miss you,” I said.

           

“I miss you, too,” said Dan. His voice dropped about half an octave and I knew what was coming next. “Wait till you get back. The things I’ll to do you and your fine ass.”

           

I giggled. “Do tell,” I said, closing my eyes and slipping my free hand under my undies as Dan whispered how he would burry his face between my legs and suck on my nipples. I never had to say much during phone sex. I was free to masturbate while Dan rattled off; he had the voice for it. He always asked for a picture of me after the fact. That was a turn on for me. We hung up after phone sex so he could beat off, but not before exchanging “I love yous.” Thank heaven for older men. Men my age were awful both in relationships and in bed. Women were a different story, although I was still green when it came to sex with women. I always preferred men and my bisexuality only recently reared its head.

           

That night, I dreamt of Dr. Quinn. She was wearing a tight red pencil skirt that matched her lips and her cat-eye glasses. She was lying back on her desk, her bun disheveled and her glasses askew. The top three buttons of her white blouse were undone so her massive breasts came spilling out and her skirt was hitched up a bit. She gestured at me to get closer and when I did, she kissed me and I felt her tongue dance in my mouth. I climbed on top of her and finished undoing her bra. I was about to delve in between her breasts when I woke up, feeling really dirty, like I was just caught watching porn. I text Dan about my dream and he suggested I tell Dr. Quinn about it. Pfft. As if.

           

Great. Now I’m talking like Dr. Quinn’s receptionist. Maybe she can give me some pointers on perfecting that accent.

To be continued...

Distance

He had a remarkable talent for disassociating with any situation that seemed even remotely unpleasant to him, particularly those situations involving an angry female member of the human race. Like the perforated edges of a bank statement, he fell away with ease at the slightest tug and pull of conflict, and he would distance himself, sometimes even physically, to some unreachable realm of his subconscious where only pleasant thoughts of voluptuous women in lingerie, the long-since-tasted sweetness of tobacco, and the archery and equestrian pursuits of his old boarding school days occupied him. Upon first meeting him, many found this the most frustrating aspect of his personality, but an otherwise a perfectly respectable gentleman, but those who lingered long enough would soon learn to dislike him on his own merits. It was, indeed, most unpleasant to occupy the same room as him and attempt small talk for the sake of your own entertainment in the absence of some other source of distraction.

His wife - for, like all gentlemen of character, he was, in fact, married - was a difficult woman to classify. She wasn't a Southern Bell, or a Big City Girl, or a Lady of the Suburbs, but she had an indisputable charm, the kind that had men waiting on her hand and foot, a frequent occurrence that left her completely befuddled. Her husband hardly noticed her upon first meeting, and in fact, it could be argued that he might not have ever set his sights on her had his best friend, Charlie, not coveted her so much; Charlie called it love at first sight, and she seemed quite taken with him from across the ballroom. But Mr. Winstead, not one to be preferred over his, in his opinion, lowly and less charming comrade, immediately proceeded to court Miss Isobel, showering her with riches, compliments, and expensive excursions, the likes of which Isobel had never seen - touring London via hot air balloon, a cruise across the Mediterranean, brunch in Paris, and tea time walks alongside the Danube - and the likes of which Charlie could only dream of affording. As a result, Charlie relinquished all feelings for Miss Isobel; heartbroken, betrayed, and defeated, he hung his battered heart like a ragged hat on the hook of helplessness, and vowed to never associate with his childhood companion and his soon-to-be beautiful, blushing bride.

That is where our protagonist comes in, from the union of Mr. Winstead and Miss Isobel, now known proper as Mrs. Winstead. Theirs was a apt Christian wedding, with all the bells, white lace, trained doves, crystal chandeliers, exquisite marble centerpieces, top shelf booze, fine cuisine, and the musical styling’s of the greats, Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Bach, and Chopin, among others, wafting around the reception hall from a live 20 piece orchestra. It was a night to remember, indeed. The honeymoon was to begin that very evening in Mr. Winstead's private island resort a stone's throw away from Turks and Caicos. Mrs. Winstead felt like the luckiest woman in the world. She spent her month long honeymoon basking in the Caribbean sun, gorging herself on the coconut and honey soaked seafood prepared by their Trinidadian live-in butler, Nico. Her evenings were full of music, good books, and mingling with locals. She fell in love with the Caribbean life and was rather sad to leave behind Nico and all her new friends. She promised to write and visit often, a promise no one expected her to fulfill. Her bliss was happily restored at the news of her pregnancy some weeks later, which she excitedly wrote to Nico and Ariel, his wife, about. Mr. Winstead, who spent more time away from the island than with his wife for the majority of their honeymoon, casually mentioned that he might like a son. Mrs. Winstead secretly hoped for a daughter. 

When their baby was born, Mrs. Winstead named her Nikki Jeanne-Marie, a name Nico and Ariel, who were unable to conceive, suggested. Mrs. Winstead immediately fell in love with her newborn and her beautiful chocolate brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and caramel complexion, all attributes Mrs. Winstead recognized from her own family lineage. "She's got my mother's eyes and my grandfather's lovely browness!" Mrs. Winstead made sure her daughter always smelled of pineapple and coconuts and sea salt. In her mind, Nikki was a pure Caribbean baby.

For the first few months of Nikki’s life, Mr. Winstead could not seem to muster any feelings of pleasure or admiration. “She’ll make a beautiful young woman someday,” was all he could manage when his wife nagged him to say something about their daughter. “She’ll make a wealthy bachelor happy, I’m sure.” Mrs. Winstead rolled her eyes and her husband’s antics. He had such a plain way of thinking. She hoped their newborn hadn’t inherited such an unlikeable trait. Mrs. Winstead often sat by her daughters crib and instead of lulling her to sleep with simple lullabies like a sensible mother, she would read to baby Nikki. She read everything, from poetry to philosophy, from novels of adventure to biographies of extraordinary people, and Mrs. Winstead tried very hard to not avoid the subjects of math and science, subjects that, while fascinating and highly important, eluded Mrs. Winstead greatly. She kept a dictionary handy when reading such tomes to Nikki; she feared that a single mispronunciation would confuse little Nikki and forever crush her potential love of the sciences. The nannies often wondered – behind closed doors and under their breaths, of course – whether Mrs. Winstead was trying to put her daughter to sleep or get a university education for herself.

Nine weeks after Nikki was born, Mr. Winstead began to proposition his wife for another child. He knew Mrs. Winstead was quite pleased with the girl, but he stressed the importance of sons. Mrs. Winstead cleverly avoided his attempts to sire another child with her. First she moaned that Nikki was too young and that another child so soon may hinder Nikki’s development. “You don’t want an idiot for a daughter, now, do you? Think of how she’ll embarrass her family! No, no, Nikki needs my complete attention at the moment.” Mr. Winstead agreed that a daft daughter would not suffice and so he conceded.

After Nikki celebrated her first birthday, Mr. Winstead tried again. But Mrs. Winstead was cleverer than her husband ever cared to notice. She was well aware that Mr. Winstead had fired several of their staff and that knew this meant he was having some financial difficulties. “But darling, look how expensive raising a child is! Another baby now would mean another mouth to feed! Who will feed him if you’ve gone and fired all the nannies that you can’t afford to keep on?” Terrified at the idea, Mr. Winsetad threw himself into his work eagerly.

Mr. Winstead’s financial troubles continued, and although he didn’t fire any more of his house staff, all thoughts of a second child left his mind for quite some time. Then Nikki turned five and Mr. Winsted tried again. Many of his closest friends and cousins had sons and he was beginning to desire one of his own. He approached his wife about it one evening. Mrs. Winstead had to really dig deep for an excuse that time. “But dearest, our little Nikki is five now. She’ll be starting school soon. She’s a clever little girl, as promised, but she’ll need help with her schoolwork. And lets not forget that we’ll have to pay tuition to send her to only the finest institution. Never mind all the books and materials for her studies and the uniform as well! I know we’re back on our feet but we’ve only just recovered. We need more time to feel financially well to raise another child.”

Mr. Winstead was fuming now at his wife’s words. “My dear woman, it’s been five years since we’ve last laid together!”

“Six,” his wife corrected. She couldn’t resist.

“Six, then!” Mr. Winstead sputtered wildly. “Recall, if you please, that I am nearly 15 years your senior. I am growing older by the day and with no heir to take my place – ”

Mrs. Winstead’s blood boiled at his words. “You have an heir!” she corrected him vehemently. “Or have forgotten your daughter already?”

Well, Mr. Winstead was quite taken aback. Never had anyone in his life spoken to him in such a manner. Mrs. Winstead realized what she had done and she saw the look in her husband’s eyes change right in front of her. Mr. Winstead stared for a second and then, with needless flourish, he snatched that day’s newspaper from his wife’s vanity and got under the covers. He wouldn’t say a word to his wife for the rest of the week and he never again tried to proposition her for a son. In fact, upon ending his cold shoulder treatment, he replaced the bed he shared with Miss Isobel with two separate ones. Miss Isobel did not protest; in fact, she rather enjoyed a little distance between herself and her husband.

To be continued...