I’m not one given to being melodramatic but it’s true when I say the world has lost all it’s sparkle for me. As I sit here in this cafe, little more than a hole in the wall, I stare into the depths of my coffee cup to save myself the trouble of seeing the world as it’s become without her. I wonder why I chose to torture myself by designating this our meeting place, but maybe it’s because I know I intend to tell him everything I’ve kept behind closed doors. Maybe because I know I need to speak with someone and it might as well be here. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Either way, I hope he gets here soon.
I’m not sure what I want to gain by this rendezvous with one of my oldest friends, but I’m fairly certain it’s something like closure. The idea that what began here ten months ago will end here as well is appealing, in it’s own ironic, slightly morbid fashion.
As I wait for my friend to arrive I try to focus on the little things to keep myself from going mad and foaming at the mouth before he even makes an appearance. The coffee stained napkin crumpled nearby; the coaster, which had once lain beneath my mug, now torn to shreds; the faint scratches marring the surface of the table.
As my foot taps a relentless rhythm on the tiled floor, I am nearly oblivious to the other patrons of the cafe. I’ve always been a people watcher, but these days I can hardly bring myself to look anyone in the eye. I think I’m afraid of what they’ll see in my own brown orbs. Probably guilt, fear....and longing. Accompanied by a host of other things, no doubt. It’s hard to believe that only a short while ago I was a barren desert of emotion and now I feel so much....it’s almost painful.
“You better watch out, man. Talking to yourself is one of the first signs that you’re going a little.....you know,” I start violently at the sound of his voice and my gaze darts up in time to see my best friend twirling his finger at the side of his head, the universal sign for mental instability. If he only knew. I roll my eyes and feign annoyance to cover the fact that I’m horrified my last comment was spoken aloud. “So, is this a private conference, or can I join you?” he asks. I wave my hand at the seat across from me which he slides into without further invitation.
Before we can exchange pleasantries, a waitress descends upon our table, her eyes glued to the man sitting opposite me. In spite of my mood, I find myself concealing a smile behind my palm, as the young woman simpers openly. My companion readily accepts her attentions lavishing them in return, flashing a killer smile, and deepening his already raspy voice. Women like that, and he knows it. He also knows they find his tattoos dangerously sexy which is the ulterior design beneath his fashion finesse. How best to display his body art has become a hobby over the years.
I watch as he slides his violet tinted sunglasses down his nose a bit, giving her a glimpse of his chocolate eyes. Gaging her reaction, I think the poor girl’s either going to faint dead away or drag my friend to the nearest hotel that rents rooms by the hour. In the end, however, she does neither but manages to take his order.
After watching her undulating hips as she retreats, he turns to me with a grin. “Whaddya say, D? An 8? That’s my call and damn if she didn’t earn every single one of those points.”
“You’re a shameless addict, AJ. If there was a twelve step program for lady killers, you’d be a founding member.”
He gives me a consenting grin and relaxes his wiry frame back into the chair. “You’re just pissed because I ended up with that redhead a few years back. Oh, and the brunette during the last tour.”
“Don’t forget about the blonde in England, two years ago,” I remind him indulgently. AJ turns his palms up helplessly.
“Hey man, I plead temporary insanity to that one. She took my breath away. Big blue eyes, long legs, stacked like a-”
“I know, Bone, I was there. Thanks for the recap.”
“-and not to mention she was of legal age.”
“In other words, she was a goner before you even said hello,” I observe wryly. The truth is, I hadn’t really wanted her -or any of those other women- anyway. And I think AJ knew it. He may talk big, but he’s just a sentimental schmuck at heart. No one better knows the meaning of monogamy.
“So, what’s going on?”
“Not much,” I reply evasively, trying to work up the gumption to introduce the topic I want to discuss. “I thought we could catch up a little. When we go on hiatus like this I don’t get to see you often - any of you.”
“Aww, Howie, you missed me,” AJ coos sarcastically wiping away an imaginary tear. He sobers on the drop of a dime, catching me off guard. “Come on, cut the crap. I’ve known you for ten years and in that time you’ve never called just to ‘catch up’.” I should have known he’d be able to see through my facade. He can read me like a book with ease; I guess that’s what happens when you spend the better part of a decade in someone’s close company.
“You know me well, AJ.”
“Damn straight. Now, are you going to tell me what’s eating you or do I have to find some wild horses?”
I crack a smile at that and begin running my finger around the lip of my cup. My skin against the ceramic creates a slight squeaking noise, though I hardly notice. Where to begin? I decide to say the first thing that pops into my mind.
“Lana left.”
AJ’s hand freezes in mid reach for the coffee the waitress brings. She sets it on the table, making a hasty exit even as he waves her away. “I’m sorry Howie,” he tells me softly, sympathetically. “What happened?”
I’ve never taken cream in my coffee, but that doesn’t stop me from opening the little packages and dumping their contents into my mug for something to do as I talk. “She went to New York.”
“Why?” AJ asks in that point blank manner of his. I think about all the ‘whys’ for a moment then shrug in helpless acceptance.
“Because she can.”
“Forgive me, D, but you’re not making much sense.”
How to make him understand?
“Did I ever tell you how Lana and I met?” I ask. I can’t help but think that, maybe, if he knew that, he’d know the rest.
“No, actually. You’re always been closed, secretive almost, about your relationship. I’ve only met her a handful of times, Howie.”
I digest AJ’s standpoint for a moment, seeing suddenly, and with more than a little shock, that he’s right. Remorse fills me that two of the most important people in my life never spent any time together. I owe him an explanation, and silently, he’s asking for one.
“That’s because Lana is....was.....fragile. We were fragile together,” I pause, contemplating AJ’s expression. “It’s a long story,” I warn him.
“I’ve got all day.”
And so I nod, relieved that we’re here together, my friend and I, sipping coffee as I begin telling him my story. Lana’s story. The story of us.
*****
Rain trickled down the window panes, moving slowly and sadly, following unseen paths on the glass. Two tiny rivulets merged into one and another quickly followed. Beyond the clear barrier, uncharacteristic gray clouds shrouded the city from sight.
“Sir?” a feminine voice called softly, “Sir?” she prompted without a hint of impatience and it was then that I realized she was talking to me. “The doctor will see you now.”
I swiveled my head to face the receptionist and looked at her through glazed eyes. “Now?”
“Yes, sir,” she nodded with a serene smile. I sat unmoving for a moment before finally rising from the chair. I acknowledged her awkwardly with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and shuffled my feet as I headed toward the door at the end of a short hallway. My palms were sweaty and my heart began to beat unsteadily. Hesitancy turned my shoes to lead and I came close to throwing it all to hell, marching back through the lobby, never to return. Instead, my hands reached for the doorknob of their own violation. It was now or never and though ‘never’ suited me just fine, I swung the door open and stepped into the room.
My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but once they did, I let my gaze roam over the space beginning with the luxuriously thick carpet of a tan hue. The walls were painted a warm earth tone and lined with bookcases which appeared to contain volumes of varying age and type. Tall green plants obscured the corners of the office, no doubt intended to lend an air of natural security to the atmosphere. Lamps with shades of tapestry lit the area, casting unfamiliar shadows. Finally, my vision settled on a man ensconced in an overstuffed armchair. He rose fluidly and spoke in soothing tones.
“Welcome, I’m pleased you could make it, Mr. Dorough,” he said as though we were old friends meeting for a cup of tea.
“Hello....yes, thank you,” I responded, unsure of the protocol yet knowing with certainty that I did not want to be standing there in the pseudo calm.
“I’m Dr. Gleason,” he extended a hand which I shook, “Please, take a seat Mr. Dorough.”
“Howie,” I corrected automatically, my years of experience with interviews kicking into overdrive. The only difference this time, was the lack of a press audience and TV cameras.
“Very well, Howie. Make yourself at home.” Dr. Gleason gave me a reassuring smile, calculated in it’s warmth. Though he meant to ease my tension, I couldn’t relax, even as I perched on the plush couch he indicated. I found that it was too comfortable, as if the inanimate object was trying too hard to be accommodating. Silence pervaded the room while we appraised one another. Finally, Dr. Gleason broke the stillness.
“How are you feeling today?”
The question, seemingly simple, held in it a thousand prodding inquiries. I cleared my throat nervously and tugged at my shirt collar as I searched for an appropriate answer. “I....I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here.”
“Why don’t we talk a while before we determine that, hmm?”
“Alright. But I’m not in need of psychiatric help,” I tell him, just to be sure we’re clear on the matter.
“I see.”
“I’m fine, really.” Admittedly, that line was more for my own benefit than his. We both knew it was far from the truth. “So...” I hazarded, “how does this work?”
“We talk, Howie, that’s all. You can say whatever you’d like to say without fear of receiving any sort of judgment from me. That’s not my job. I’m here as your sounding board, to give advice when necessary. Think of me as a friend with a listening ear.”
Somehow, picturing Dr. Gleason with tattoos, bushy eyebrows, or a southern drawl didn’t seem right. In fact, it wrung a smile from me, the first I’d had in weeks, which I guess he took as a good sign because he returned the gesture before beginning the inquisition.
“What prompted you to make the decision to see me?”
“I didn’t. Management thought it would be a good idea. They recommended you.” I am unable to keep the distaste from my voice as I remember the meeting I’d had with the liaison from the Firm. I was emotionally closed off, they said. I needed to talk to someone, they said. I needed to learn how to deal with my anger, they said.
“And how did you feel about that?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.
“How am I supposed to feel? I think it’s a fucking farce.” Challenge rang clear in my tone. I was armed for battle with this doctor, ready to balk every step of the way. In truth, the man sitting opposite me and the three letters after his name scared me. I didn’t want to be the emotionally unstable Backstreet Boy. I just wanted to be me.
“You’ve just returned from your world tour, correct?”
“Yes. It was an ambitious venture,” I supplied. I guess he knew that already, because he certainly nodded as if he did.
“Uh huh. And how did you sleep on the road?”
“I didn’t.”
“Do you now that you’re back at home, in your own bed?”
“No.”
“How’s your appetite?”
“Nonexistent.”
“I see. What’s the most common emotion you feel these days?”
“I don’t,” I answered quickly. In retrospect, I was trying to convince myself of that fact, though I purposely ignored the pain embedded inside me.
“Would you say you’re melancholy, then?”
I shrugged.
“Have you been having mood swings?”
I thought of all the times I’d snapped at Nick and Brian for no apparent reason, with nothing other than a vague sense of annoyance to back me up where I was used to feeling emptiness. I tried to explain that sensation to Gleason, but I’m not sure if he understood because he made a lot of notes on his yellow legal pad with an expensive fountain pen.
And so it continued, the accredited Harvard man with his credentials framed and hung on the wall, asking question after question about my physical habits and health with inquiries regarding my dead emotions peppered in between. I hated it. I felt invaded as if my brain and thoughts had been picked over then left to fade in the sun. As a wild thing loathes captivity, I loathed that office.
Just when I supposed it couldn’t get any worse, he asked me about my liaisons with the opposite sex.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Is there any particular reason why?”
“I don’t need one at this point in my life,” I lied, unconsciously wringing my hands in my lap. He made me nervous.
“When was the last time you had a significant other?”
“Before the tour. It ended in the middle of our booking.”
“What happened?”
To this day, I am amazed at my ability to have related all the sordid details so devoid of emotion. I spoke dispassionately as I told Dr. Gleason of the weekend break we had received between our Raleigh and Atlanta shows, how I had caught a flight back to Orlando, how I had come home with a dozen roses, how I had walked in on my girlfriend in bed with another man. How I had felt searing, white hot anger course through my veins as I threw her and her lover out on the street with nothing but the sheet to share between them. About how I had felt nothing since then and had no desire to either. Emotion meant pain. I had had enough of that.
Since then, I’ve put her out of sight, though sadly enough, not out of mind.
“Have you subsequently dated any women?”
“No.” Well, that was the truth. I’d had a few flirtatious encounters in clubs and bars, but that had been the extent of it. No sex, no love, no relationship. I could feel my face harden as his next query fell between us.
“When do you think you’ll be ready to get back in the game?”
Was he serious? I shrugged in half hearted response and looked out the window with a quiet sigh.
“Perhaps we’d better continue this next week,” Dr. Gleason suggested, correctly assessing my tightlipped determination.
I rose without a word, relieved beyond belief and anxious to get out of there. It didn’t even occur to me to protest a second meeting. I shook his hand on autopilot, making a hasty departure. The sound of his office door shutting behind me was the most welcome sound I’d heard in the past hour.
I stopped reluctantly at the receptionist’s desk to schedule my next appointment. She was on the phone so I leaned against the counter, my arms folded in front of me as I waited. My gaze strayed to the other occupants of the lobby. A man in a business suit sat reading the Wall Street Journal; probably a suicidal stock broker. A brooding teen dressed entirely in black slumped in the corner, and a young woman, early twenties I guessed, starred out the window from the very chair I had claimed an hour prior. She held herself with an air of discomfort as if she truly didn’t want to be there either. Her hands nervously twisted the hem of her light sweater and I could see one of her ankles shaking violently beneath the gauzy fabric of her floor length skirt. As my eyes crept up her form to her face, I found her features pale, her hair lackluster, the deep chestnut of her waves too dark for her complexion. She was not pretty, but I had a feeling that had something to do with whatever reason she was sitting in a psychiatrist’s office.
Without warning her eyes met mine and I couldn’t bring myself to look away. Neither of us smiled, probably because we were too entranced with the lock of our mocha gazes. To this day, I remember the expression held in the depths of her glassy spheres. I got the distinct impression that she was frightened. Of what, I couldn’t say, but the fear ate at her, plagued her.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. She returned her line of sight to the view outside the window, though the haunting light in her eyes left me feeling faintly unsettled. She never looked my way again, as I set my appointment with Dr. Gleason for the following Wednesday.
Not even when I returned week after week, three in a row, did she spare a glance in my direction though I certainly drank my fill of her. I began to call her Ophelia to myself, and that’s who she became. I liked to sit in the lobby, speculating about what brought each of the patients to this same practice. I thought most often of Ophelia, and those sadly scintillating eyes of hers. I never could quite get them out of my mind.
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