I sat on the street outside my therapist’s office smoking a cigarette. The door was locked so I assumed her to be running a bit late.
We had seen each other four times. Talked of parents and childhood and sexual repression.
The whole shah-bang. Making progress, I suppose. I waited – five past, ten past – a car makes a sharp U-turn and pulls up right in front of me.
“Excuse me. Do you know how to get back to the highway?”
“Straight that way. Hang a right at the stop sign then go through the lights and the entrance will be on your right.”
I sit back against the wall. Cigarette number three or four come along as we reach twenty past. Door still locked. Somebody yells at me from across the street.
“Excuse me. How do we get to the theatre from here?”
So I stand up and yell back.
“Take a left at this light, go up three blocks and you’ll see it on your left. Parking around the back!”
“No problem!” The light turns green and they speed off.
By the time my appointment is over I’ve gone through half a pack of cigarettes and finally decide to head home, the door deciding to remain adamantly unmoved.
I try to call a few times and leave a few voicemails, but never did hear back from my therapist.
I wonder if those people ever made it to their destinations.