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someone’s couch.

“It must be devastating having to listen to my monologue. Even if you do it willingly. Well, more or less willingly.” I thought I might as well be honest with her. I surprised myself more than her. I was hoping she wouldn’t think I was offensive or disrespectful. “I should know right? I’m listening to it every waking hour. My internal monologue. Couple it with the output of my optic nerves and you have yourself the weirdest film with the most pathetic and unscripted voice over.” And melodramatic — I should have added. As those words echoed in my head I was wondering who I was kidding. Who I was imitating or loosely basing my character on. This wasn’t me. Or was it? “It is okay to be clueless, is it not? It is okay not to able to respond to a single one of your questions, right? It should be okay just to stare ahead, pick my nails, wring my hands, clam up and waste both of our times? Tell me if it’s not okay.” This is bad. Whatever’s come over me I should be able to suppress it, contain it, take control. But then, it’s all give and take — might be she’s having fun. “I’m sorry, let’s scrap all that. Can we go back to where I come in and I haven’t said a word? And keep it that way for a while? Perhaps I sit down, you sip your tea, and you too stay quiet. Would that work?” And she does take a sip and does stay quiet for a little while more. And then she says, “Not a word since you entered and sat down. Have you got something to say to me?”


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