Voicebox

She was walking down the street back from work. It was a November night, cold, and she was alone. At times like these, she liked to talk to herself. She called it “rubber duck therapy.” Basically, it was as if she was talking to a rubber duck, only without the rubber duck. Thoughts acquire substance when articulated, a gray-haired psychologist in her head seemed to say.

”I was hoping we could leave work together,” she said to an imaginary him. “I was hoping we could walk down to the subway station, wait together, and then ride the few stops before I have to switch lines. I was hoping we could talk because I miss alone time with you. But you got into the car with her because she happened to be leaving work at the same time. It does not make sense for her to drive me, but it makes sense for her to drive you. As I was putting my coat on, I looked across the room and our eyes met, but only for a second."

"Why do you miss me?” the imaginary him asked, “Why do you want to spend time with me? You have loads of friends. You have all the friends you want. You can have anyone you want."

"No, I can’t have the one person I want the most."

"Because I am married?"

"Because you are married, because your wife is a wonderful person."

"You don’t really want me. Why would you want me?”

She reached the stairs that lead down to the station. The sign read “Hobbes End” and not “Hope’s End” which would be more appropriate. Or at least more theatrical.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk