"How're you today, Tee Jay?"
The question comes off as casual but I know it's clinical, like the room, as comfortable as a motel lobby. Its walls are plastered with posters meant to make me feel appreciated: You Served Your Country, Now Your Country Will Serve You; Welcome Home, You Have Kept It The Home Of The Brave And The Land Of The Free; Your Service Is The Greatest Because You Volunteered; Tell Us What You Want, You Fought To Give Us Everything We Need. And it smells like Lysol. Clinical, sterile, sanitized. He-who-calls-me - "Tee Jay" smells like a cologne bath. I hate artificial smells. Would rather embrace the stink.
I sit in a chair upholstered in a pale blue fabric. Supposed to be soothing, maybe, but probably just fucking faded from age. He sits in a chair across from me. Dressed business casual and armed with a pen and notepad he exhales this aaaahhh like he's just sipped a refreshing drink. Asks me if I want one. I decline. Am I sure? There's freshly brewed coffee. This time I decline with a gesture. Subtle and strict.
"So..." consults the notepad, "the last time we talked you were having terrible headaches. They've improved?"
"Yeah, now they're just regular headaches."
"Taking your medication?"
"When I need to."
"Shouldn't you take it as prescribed?"
"Why don't you?"
Because it makes me feel dead, rather feel painfully alive.
"Slips my mind "
"....Tee Jay...you've admitted that you skip your medication deliberately because you don't like how it makes you feel. Do think a lower dosage would help?"
So I feel less dead? Why not use a smaller caliber so someone feels less shot? Or climax faster so someone feels less raped? Hey, I got one, how about coming straight out and calling a female a cunt instead of dancing around with bitch, slut, hussy, whore...just executed some motherfucker instead of warning him, shit, you're going to kill him anyway. He ain't gonna surrender and you ain't gonna see his side of it.
Shrug, shift a little, wanna scratch my crotch, "Guess there's no harm in trying."
"I think your headaches, or their intensity, have less to do with your medication than with certain... exacerbations..."
Medication masturbates your mind.
"At our previous meeting you mentioned dealing with personal issues."
Well, public issues sure as shit do not exacerbate my headaches. Rarely watch the news. Politics bore she piss outta me. Don't vote. Think protestors should be gassed. Personal issues. That's a clinical, sterile, sanitized way to put it.
"Everyone has to deal with some kind of shit."
"We're not here to talk about everyone. What kind of shit are you dealing with?"
"What is the shit with which I am dealing."
" You're avoiding the issue with grammar."
You're trying to get at the issue with bad grammar. Never end a sentence, declarative or inquisitive, with a preposition. Never take your trigger finger off the trigger guard unless you are preparing to shoot. Never interrogate a male suspected of insurgency without corraling/apprehending/ arresting the females in his family first: they are bargaining chips. They will persuade him better than a rifle.
"If you want to talk about E____ then say it."
"She's the exacerbation?"
"Won't say it ain't possible."
"Why are you defending her? If she's making your headaches worse then say it."
If she is I guess she's got the right: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, ain't that how it goes? Scorned her by leaving her three times.
You left me three times. I left you once.
Left to do my job.
Left to fight. Three times. I left you once and you didn't fight to keep me or get me back.
Why would you want to be kept, to come back? Said I scared you, said sex made you feel raped, said you were scared you'd creak the floorboards walking to the bathroom and I 'd shoot you, said I scared you. Scared you. Essentially raped you with my aggression, hyper-alert sensations. Nothing softened my hardness. Said I ignored you, said -
" - she's been sending you birthday cards and cards for the holidays, Christmas and all that, and you never responded. And now she's being aggressive."
"Why do you think she's doing that?"
Because she wants to get a rise out of me.
"You'll have to ask her."
"I'm asking you."
In the morning there was a relentless tease in the air, an electric taunting, the quintessential hurricane season foreboding in the clouds, in the wind, the heavy cover and light forbearance, something in the ether is preparing to explode - trees look like frozen explosions- and the birds ain't chirpped so highly and the squirrels ain't scurried so swiftly and the salt in the air (the nearer to the ocean I came) ain't smelled so salty. Everything seemed to have relented in preparation for the reley of the relentless.
At the end, "I gotta go. Got some supplies for hurricane season to pick up."
"...Fiona? She's going to Canada last I heard."
E____. She's going to get a rise outta me last I felt.
The conclusion concludes.
The frustration and ache will exude.
"....one more thing, Tee Jay," he says like Columbo, "if she said point blank that she wants you back what would you do?"
Fuck her and leave her before the sweat dries.
Shift, shrug, scratch - who gives a shit - "Guess I'd rise to the occasion."