Clacking

Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts - Part 3

I put my arms back across my chest. I was cold after thinking about writing at night. I leaned back and put one foot on the table.

You sure told him a lot all of a sudden.

Dee’s supposed to do the talking. Where the hell is she?

Blame Dee. Go ahead. You’re a dick.

You’re a fuck face.

Dr. Marty leaned back, and put both feet on the table. Face thought this was funny.

“Dee really likes this life coaching,” I said, quickly putting my foot down. “I know she wishes she were here now. She’s probably pissed.”

“Disappointed, maybe. Dee doesn’t seem like she gets angry quickly.”

Our glassware at home cowered at the thought.

“I want to make it work,” I said. “You want me to talk to myself, which is stupid. You want me to ‘get things done’ which is obvious. I don’t even know that the third thing is other than I listen to comedy albums. What’s the damn point?”

“You don’t want some large speech. You need specifics. So instead of explaining myself, let’s do something that you’ll find valuable.”

Dee walked in and started across the room, heels clacking on the hardwood floors. Dr. Marty needed a good carpet. Her timing was good and bad, all at the same time.

“What?” I asked.

“Let’s talk more about your writing.” Then he looked at Dee, “Tom told me about his desk and candles and writing. It sounded so awesome.”

She flung her new coat on the couch. The color, pastel indigo, was just red enough and desaturated enough to clash with the bold blue of the couch leather.

She sat next to me.

… continued

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Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts

Part 3: Clacking
Part 2: Smell The Writing
Part 1: Detail, Time Square