This is a start of a short story.

 

Crap, I’m late again

    Stupid alarm clock never goes off, can’t really afford a new one. Damian is going to give me that look again, that disappointed eyebrow look every therapist does. Damian, I should stop calling him by his first name he prefers doctor D. which is just too much like an innuendo for me to say. Okay concentrate get up. Yep very greasy hair guess I’m going to be even more late. I hop my way to the bathroom pulling off my socks and pj’s as I go. My cat named curry watching me from her perch on my vanity with the usual disinterested expression. I tumble into the shower nearly slipping to my death on the grimy bathtub floor, my eyes still half closed in exhaustion. I had another late night last night reading about a conspiracy around church bells connecting to police sirens. Crazy I know but still interesting. I hop out of the shower my hair clinging to the side of my face and my body exuding steam. I run out of the house 5 minutes later with a stale bagel in my mouth and wet hair dripping on my old green coat. I catch the bus within seconds making the bus driver roll his eyes in annoyance as i picked through my almost empty wallet for enough change. Of course I get off the bus a stop early it’s just like me to get off too early when I’m late. I furiously smoke my last cigarette from the box almost biting the filter in desperation to get that carcinogenic goodness into my lungs. I finally get to the monstrous tower that is my depressing destination. I stamp on my cigarette respectfully waving goodbye to the one good part of my morning. I watch the numbers go up as the old elevator climbs the floors and try to imagine what it would be like if the chord just snapped right there and I plummeted to my death. Not that I want to die I’m just curious… don’t tell my therapist. I made it, half an hour late but I’m here. I watch as doctor D. clicks his pen in disapproval in this amazingly bland room, sitting in his thick grey chair, his body sinking into it. The chairs are made soft to try and make you feel less uncomfortable but the gesture makes everything seem even more awkward. I mean come on who really enjoys therapy?

“So Lucy I see our goal to be on time more often has not been going as well as we had hoped.” He says we as if we are both equally invested in something only I have control over.

“No clearly not” I say as politely as possible through clenched teeth.

“How about trying to quit smoking? have you kept clean?”

I fumble with the empty cigarette box in my jacket with joy.

“Yes perfectly clean” I sing “3 days now and I feel great!”

There’s one good thing about therapy, it makes you a great liar.