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“Vanilla latte with soy milk, no whip, please.”
“Sure thing, Amelia,” the girl said, remembering my name even though I couldn't remember hers. “And the Americano as well? Like usual?”
My heart sank. “Uhh no thank you.”
The Americano was for Charlie. I usually picked up his drink and we met at the BART station where we'd ride into the city together.
The poor girl had no idea why my face fell so quickly, so I feigned a smile for her and shrugged casually, as if it were no big thing.
“Me and Mr. Americano broke up,” I said.
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”
She seemed genuinely sorry, and for that reason, I made every effort to read her name tag.
“It's okay, it was for the best, Tara,” I said quietly.
Who knew getting your morning coffee could be such a downer?
DREW
I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself to get up, get showered, and get dressed. Last night had been fun – the most fun I'd had in a long time. B
ut there was still that overwhelming sense of loneliness I faced most days since returning from overseas. My phone buzzed with some belated birthday greetings from relatives that I'm surprised even remembered my name – an uncle who lived in the Midwest, who I'd met maybe once or twice, a cousin I used to be close with before leaving to serve overseas, and a few other people.
I closed out of those notifications, and when my phone went off again, I cursed. But this time it was just a reminder.
“Therapist appointment with Dr. Emerson at nine,” I read out loud.
I rolled my eyes and considered calling to cancel. But even though I briefly considered it, I knew it wasn't actually an option for me. Missing an appointment with the exalted Dr. Emerson would screw up a lot of things – including the disability payments that paid for my food and shit. The house was paid for, free and clear thanks to my folks, but living wasn't cheap. Even when you were living rent-free.
The girl I'd brought home last night left – snuck out in the middle of the night. And yeah, that made me feel like shit. Not that I'd expected anything more than a one-night stand with her, but some breakfast – and maybe even getting her name – would have been nice. But she snuck out at some point, leaving me alone in my bed, making me wonder if I'd imagined fucking her in some elaborate masturbatory fantasy.
Except, I knew it wasn't a dream. It had been too good and I hadn't been fucked up enough to dream up something like that.
Nah, she'd just snuck out in the middle of the night. Not that I blamed her. It was usually pretty awkward to wake up and look your one-night stand in the eye. Sharing conversation over breakfast? Probably too much to ask.
I took a piss and stared at myself in the mirror, not liking what I saw. The scruff on my face getting a little out of control and I looked exhausted. I should shave before my appointment, but I didn't feel like it. Not that it mattered anyway. Not like I had a job to go to or anyone to meet. Besides, I was just meeting this Dr. Emerson dude, and who the fuck cared what he thought? He was just giving me a psych evil. Hell, maybe the scruff on my dishevelled appearance would help my case some – so I left it.
After a quick shower, I let my hair go wild too. It was short to my head, almost military cut but with a little length on the top. Now that I didn't need to keep my hair cropped close, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with it. And letting it grow out sounded good to me. Again, it just added to the stereotype a bit more. Rugged vet, down on his luck, haunted by the demons of war.
Yeah, since I was pretty much a poster boy for the anti-war crowd, I might as well look the part.
A pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt I'd been given as a parting gift after leaving the Navy was my signature look these days. I wasn't dressing to impress anyone after all. A quick run into the city, meet with the good doctor and then back here for a nap before God knew what later in the evening. Maybe some video games. Maybe see if the pussy whipped guys who called themselves my buddies could get together again tonight, to make up for being lame asses the night before.
I sighed, unable to avoid the reality that my life was a shitshow. If it wasn't for the fact that my parents had money, I'd have been one of those homeless vets on the street. Or worse. Probably dead in a gutter somewhere.
I was one of the lucky ones, that was for sure. Which was another reason I didn't want to blow the appointment for my evil – even though I didn't think it would do any fucking good anyway.
ooo000ooo
“I'm here to see Dr. Emerson.”
“Oh, she's running a little behind today,” the friendly receptionist said flashing me a smile that was blindingly bright – her teeth far too white to be real. “But she will see you in just a moment.”
She. My therapist was a woman? For some reason, I pictured a balding older man with glasses. Maybe a little on the overweight side wearing an ugly sweater vest. But Dr. Emerson was a woman. I would be telling my entire life story and deepest problems to a woman. I didn't consider myself a sexist by any stretch of the imagination, but honestly, I wasn't sure how comfortable I was about that. There was some dark shit in my head and I wasn't sure about having a woman opening up that Pandora's Box.
Hell, maybe I was a little sexist after all. But in my defence, I would feel the same way about a woman giving me a hernia check. There was some shit only guys could relate to. Or so I thought.
