LOVEHUNTER

Your father never had much in the way of advice or words of wisdom to share but one of the things he always liked to remind you of was this: It’s not officially summer in Coney Island until the start of the Mermaid Parade. This is when these people will finally begin to unwind and enjoy the sun. Today is so muggy and sticky and sweaty, you feel as though you’re sucking air in through the exhaust pipe of a car that just ran the Daytona 500. The haze conjures up something like one of those cartoon mirages. Deserts and palm trees with big coconuts. Stuff like that. Your rubber shoe soles want to fuse with the sidewalk and asphalt. It’s too hot to simply lie in your apartment hoping for a short, cruel gust of sea breeze; you need to stay moving just to keep the sweat coming.

The costumed crowds are holding Surf Avenue hostage and you have to elbow them out of your way to get through. It’s a maddening assortment of mer-creatures (both maids and men) and various representatives of undersea royalty that number into the thousands. Topless women painted blue. Dogs wearing clam shells. And then there’s all the kids running around like they own the place.

When you were a boy you reveled in the annual festivities much like anyone else, mostly by making mischief with friends of yours. Barton and Reilly: these were the friends that everyone had in school, the ones that always got you into trouble but you kept calling them your friends because it’s not like you had any other options. You don’t remember all that much about them now except that when he was younger Barton had always wanted to be a concert pianist until his music teacher told him his fingers were too short. So he became an avid reader of Hitler’s Mein Kampf instead. He enjoyed eating licorice babies but mostly for their racial connotations. As for Reilly, all you can really recall was that he had an incredible collection of plastic dinosaurs. It’s funny, the things you choose to remember about people.

During the annual Mermaid Parade the three of you would sneak your way onto parade floats only to surprise the crowds by tossing eggs at them. Cartons of eggs were simple enough to stow away in your school bag and you could usually count on throwing half a dozen before being spotted by anyone with any sort of authority to direct you elsewhere. The hope was that you might even get lucky with the opportunity to hit someone you knew, someone you’d waited the entire school year to nail with a surprise egg in the face. Reilly’s family owned a bakery so the three of you had a nearly unlimited supply. The last summer you spent together you told Barton and Reilly that you’d had enough. You wouldn’t be taking part in their games anymore. It was time to grow up. It was time for all of you to grow up, you said. As it happened, the two of them jumped off the float and ran up Fifteenth Street, right to your father’s shoe store and burned the place down. How’s that for growing up then? The Smalls went bankrupt shortly after and things have only been spiralling downhill since then.

The latest example being this morning: you showed up for your regular Saturday appointment with Doctor Griffin. The receptionist was new (you didn’t recognize her, at least) and when you gave her your name she simply stared blankly like she didn’t believe you. But maybe it was just the purple bruising taking up one quarter of your face that had thrown her off.

“I’m sorry Mr. Small, but Doctor Griffin will not be able to see you today.”

“He can’t see me? But I have an appointment.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, as though saying it a second time would mean something more to you. Throwing your arms up into the air you wondered what it was you should do next. The receptionist – you finally noticed that her name plate read Kerrigan - shifted her dark eyes back and forth quickly. She lowered her voice to a hush and said, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this...” She took another peek behind her, “...but Doctor Griffin is dead.”

Your arms deflated back in and you hurt your boney wrists when they slapped the rivets on your jean shorts. “Dead?” you asked, flabbergasted.

“Shhhhh!” Kerrigan clicked her pen quickly a few times and wrote something on an unseen notepad. The darting, shifty eyes and the vigorous pen-clicking might be future memory triggers so you made sure to log them away.

“When did he die?” you asked, lowering your voice just enough.

“This morning.” With her pen, Kerrigan pointed over her shoulder. “They told me it was a suicide.” She said they like there was some secret society plotting against her on the other side of the wall, or maybe the KGB. “Though I think it was his wife. Maybe his brother? His bro always seemed a bit suspicious to me. I’m thinking poison. Or like an overdose of prescription drugs, you know?”

“You’ve certainly come up with a load of theories considering he only died this morning.”

“I have a lot of time on my hands. Plus, I’m taking a creative writing class and it’s been really good at getting lots of ideas out of me. I’m writing a short story right now.” She held up a notepad, hoping to provide proof. You smiled a little, but only in the hopes that the conversation would be over sooner.

“Should you really be telling me all of this, Kerrigan?”

“Yeah, probably not.”

You considered what the chances might have been that Doctor Griffin perhaps took his own life because he could no longer handle the problems of his anxiety-laden, manic depressive clients. And what might the probability have been that Doctor Griffin killed himself specifically because of your own problems? Like he had to do it this morning before you showed up.

“The fact remains,” Kerrigan continued, “you will no longer be able to see Doctor Griffin. I can make an appointment for you to see someone new if you’d like?”

Of course, who’s to say he was even responsible for it? It could have been an accident for all you know. “But Doctor Griffin is the only therapist I’ve ever seen. He’s knows everything about me.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you Mr. Small.” She took a look over some sort of document in front of her. If this was actually pertaining to you, whether it was anything relevant at all or if it was completely unrelated to your presence there, you had no idea. Like the instruction manual for that desktop fan of hers that was obviously not working; blowing its air at the wall, trying to oscillate but stuck in that click-click-click position. “But there’s a guy in your neighborhood who’s eager for new patients. Maybe I can set up something for you there?”

Turned out he was eager, and eager enough that he’d see you the exact same day. Almost immediately, in fact. So Kerrigan transferred your personal information from the office of the late Doctor Griffin to the office of the unknown Doctor Gideon and you made your way there. Now you’re right in the middle of the Mermaid Parade. The office is above a furniture store, beneath the subway tracks and across from the Luna Park entrance. The amusement park gate’s giant blue and red pinwheels and crescent moons are unlit during the day and only help with the feelings of abandonment and neglect that go hand in hand with this part of town.

You have to push a guy in a giant sea star costume aside to get to the front door. There’s a buzzer, but it’s missing the metal plate around it that likely held the building’s list of tenant names. There’s no identification on it whatsoever, as though the place were vacant. It feels more like an incomplete movie set: maybe the buzzer plate is still somewhere in a poorly-labeled box in the back of one of the prop trucks. Nevertheless, you try the handle and the door swings right open. You slip into the building quickly, separating yourself from the insanity outside.

The office upstairs is empty. There’s a reception desk, but no one here. Everything in the room feels new yet there’s a sense of someone having been through here recently, like an Ikea showroom. The wallpaper appears longer than the height of the wall; it’s peeling up over the ceiling and you wonder if there was always too much paper or if the walls have been slowly shrinking. A framed campaign poster of Ronald Reagan seems both topically and chronologically misleading, as do the stack of kitchen decor and boating magazines from the Nineteen-Nineties. At least the temperature is welcoming; if the crowds outside knew that standing in this office felt like being on an arctic ice flow the Mermaid Parade wouldn’t be nearly as popular this year.

You rap a fist upon the reception desk and hear a wet cough from behind the door, as though you’ve just woken this someone from a nap. After some rustling of papers a man emerges from the next room. A lanky but slight frame with a bit of a beer belly, he’s wearing flip flops, shorts and a t-shirt that says ‘Surf Tofino’ with a picture of a camper van and a surfboard on it. His hair is short and wavy, dirty blonde with graying temples. And a long, pointy nose almost seems lengthy enough that he might touch it with the tip of his tongue should he lick his lips too vigorously.

“I’ll be right with you Mr. Small,” he says, identifying you as though it would be impossible for anyone else to have walked in right now. You thank him and he disappears behind the door again, leaving you behind to wait in one spot until called upon. You take another look at the poster. People First, it reads. It’s obvious now that it’s a picture of Clinton and not Reagan like you first thought. You don’t know how you could have made a mistake like that.

He calls for you to enter the office and you walk in guardedly. The serenity of the front reception is instantly missed upon entering Doctor Gideon’s office. The open window facing Surf Avenue allows for every sort of festive cacophony to invade what should be a peaceful setting. The heat had returned also, seemingly tenfold, prompting your questioning of why the therapist’s office could not be in the front reception - and vice versa - at least just for today. “I like it in here,” the man who led you in responds before offering a seat on the sofa. He seats himself at the desk, puts his feet up and places his hands behind his head in victorious fashion, as if just winning a thousand bucks at the horse track.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I didn’t realize you were Doctor Gideon. I think I thought you were maybe the receptionist.”

“I don’t have a receptionist, so I can understand your confusion. But please, it’s just Gideon.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I mean, I’m not actually a doctor.”

“You’re not? But the sign in the hall says Doctor.”

“You know what? I told the guy not to put Doctor on it. Ah, but you know how it goes. Nobody ever listens, right?” He kicks his hairy legs off the desk like he’s all done with the idle chit chat and is ready to get down to business. His desktop is clean aside from a pen, a lilac-colored journal, a manila folder and an empty, stained coffee cup. Gideon (you wonder, so was this a first name or a last name?) opens the folder and flips through some different colored papers. “Lexapro. Sinequan. Pristiq. Vivactil. Boy, they’ve got you on a lot of shit, don’t they?”

“Well, Doctor Griffin prescribed all of those to me himself. He knows me better than anyone.”

“Better than you know yourself, is that how it goes?”

“Um, yeah. I suppose so.”

“And this thing: your proso – prosopang – pangno…”

“Prosopagnosia,” you say. It took you a while to learn the stupid word too, didn’t it? “It means I don’t remember faces.”

“Do you remember me?”

You stop. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” With his little finger Gideon digs around inside his nose, not caring that you’re sitting directly across him, or even that the two of you are in the middle of a serious conversation. You always thought picking your nose in public was a faux pas, but you could be mistaken. He looks at the tip of his finger before wiping whatever treasure he found on his shorts. “I heard this Griffin killed himself, is that right?”

“That’s what his receptionist said. Though she had some other theories too.”

“Yeah, she told me. Confidentiality kind of goes out the window with that one, doesn’t it?” Comically, he makes a clueless sort of face and swishes a hand past the top of his head. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me. There’re some things I like to keep from even myself.” He winks, though you have no idea what he meant by what he said. “I should tell you, however, that some of my patients have described my therapeutic methods as being very unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Not really. I’ll just throw some shit at you and see what sticks.” You’re starting to wonder why Gideon was the first therapist Doctor Griffin’s receptionist suggested to you. Did she have any other names on that list? “So where do you want to start?” he asks.

“I’m sorry? Where?”

“I have the list of psychopharmaceuticals you’re taking Cepik, but I know virtually nothing else about you. Where does your depression stem from? Childhood? High school? David Lynch films? Lost Highway, did you ever see that one? Boy, that’s a mind-fuck, right there. What other issues are we looking at here? And where the heck did that nasty bruise of yours come from?”

You rub your jaw, embarrassed. It still hurts but the pain helps to numb everything that’s happening right now.

“A mistake, no doubt?”

“I kissed a girl in Brighton Beach the other night. Her boyfriend was none too pleased about the whole thing.”

Gideon takes a quick look over some of your paperwork, scratching at his scalp with the pen. “Not a very bright move. Why the hell would you do that?”

“Aren’t you supposed to help me figure that out? Isn’t that what you’re here for?” His movement is almost imperceptible but you sense shrugged shoulders, as though he’s not really sure himself. Slumping back into the sofa even farther, you release a heavy sigh and bury your face into your sweaty palms. “God. It feels like such a waste.”

“What’s a waste?” he asks, pen at the ready.

“I mean, I already went through all of this with Doctor Griffin. I’ve been seeing him once a week for the last two years! And now I have to start from scratch again? I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Well Griffin certainly didn’t do you any favors by offing himself this morning, that’s for sure. But I’ll get you back to where you were, maybe even further. I promise you. Who knows, we might even consolidate your medication too.” Gideon scribbles some notes into the lilac journal, taking his time. From outside, you hear bottles breaking and people yelling at one another. But even though the open window allows for the invasion of the parade’s racket, it still feels like this room is in some sort of extended silence. Like it’s waiting for something that’s about to happen. You feel uncomfortable. This heat is making it worse too. As he continues to write Gideon asks, “You know a griffin is a mythological creature, don’t you?”

“I guess so. Why?”

For whatever reason, he picks his nose again; this time with a different finger. Maybe he knows about your memory triggers and is trying to throw you off by switching the details? “That means it doesn’t actually exist.”

“I know what mythological means,” you say.

Without any further comment, Gideon jots something more down in the journal. Nervously, you take a look around the office, the details of which feel pretty typical with the standard bookshelves, area rug and a potted fern, but there is one item on the wall behind you that sticks out. It’s an album cover, an original dust jacket framed under glass. It’s the cover for Whitesnake’s Lovehunter album, obvious only because the band name and title are clearly written at the top. You certainly would not have known otherwise. The wacked-out cover art is of a naked woman straddling a monstrous snake between her legs, and it goes far past the point of sexual innuendo. A very strange thing to have on the wall. You think, Aren’t therapists’ offices supposed to be free of distractions like this? Doctor Griffin’s office was all eggshell and earth tones. Forgettable couch upholstery. Nothing this jarring in the least. Nothing at all.

Finally he finishes writing. He catches you staring at the album cover, but doesn’t comment. Instead he says, “I’ve got a question for you Cepik.”

“I’m sorry, but can you call me Epic? Everybody calls me Epic. Not Cepik.”

“Who’s everybody?”

“Don’t worry about it. What was your question?”

“I was going to ask if you would rate yourself for me.”

“What do you mean rate myself? Is there a more specific category?”

“There is no category. Just rate yourself. Please give me a number between one and ten, excluding seven.”

“Why not seven?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Um, ah...I guess a six.”

“Six? Very interesting...” Gideon writes some more down.

“Is that bad?”

“No, no. This is a good start.”

What the point of this exercise is you have no idea, but it kind of feels like you’re with some fifth grade girls and they’re deciding who you’re going to marry based on the number that comes up on their origami finger puzzle thingy. He’s right. This is very unorthodox. The naked woman on the large snake behind you is certainly not helping matters.

He says, “I find that given the opportunity, the majority of my patients will pick seven in their P-R-E: their Personal Rating Evaluation. If I eliminate the seven it forces them to choose between the two closest options: six or eight. They either have to knock themselves down a notch or bump themselves up. That says a lot about their personal reflection.”

“But what if I intended to pick six anyway?”

“That’s not my point.”

This might be a bad sign, but you’ve already hit a complete and total state of confusion. To relieve your befuddlement, you do your best to think of something else you could never understand:

Curling irons. Garage doors. Hypodermic tubing. Van de Graaff generators.

Anything at all:

Coconut water. Staplers. Two-way mirrors. Streaming music.

That’s better, isn’t it?

“Epic? EPIC?”

But then it’s back to reality. “Huh? I’m sorry, what?”

“I was asking about your mother and your eyes just kind of rolled back into your head.”

“What about my mother?”

“I like to get the whole mother thing out of the way early since that’s where most of my patients’ problems will stem from.”

“My mother left us. But that was years ago. I was only five.”

“See? This is exactly what I was talking about.” He points at you with his finger, jabbing excitedly. “That’s it right there: the mommy issues!”

You recoil slightly into the sofa. Truthfully, you don’t really think about your mother much anymore, do you? Other than maybe a passing What if? fantasy once every year or so. There was a man who came by your apartment all the time. He had a beard, that’s really about all you can recall, isn’t it? You’d see him there on weekends or days you weren’t in school. Never when your father was home. You weren’t suspicious about this man as a child, but when your mother finally did disappear altogether one day and your father sat you down to explain that it was doubtful she’d ever come home, you began to put the pieces together. You were angry, but still not old enough to be justifiably angry, which is much worse. Basically, you grew up with your dad. That was family. Mom wasn’t in the equation so you didn’t dwell on the fact that she hadn’t had enough love for either of you to make her stay.

So when you tell Gideon that your mother left, you just say it without any coaxing. Some people have mothers, some don’t. This is just the truth of it all. Why is he being so accusatory? Why is he treating this as some giant breakthrough? And worse, only mere minutes into your first session. “There’s really not much I can tell you about my mother,” you say to him bluntly. “She’s not a factor anymore.” You’re not sure if he believes you or not.

Gideon just scribbles some more in the notebook. “Well, this is why I like to get the mother thing out of the way early,” he reiterates, though you can’t tell if this is the end of it or not. All you know is that you’d rather just move along. Gideon stops writing for a moment to draw a heavy line across the page. He adds another stroke or two for emphasis. Is he crossing out something irrelevant or underlining something important? His tongue juts out of his mouth as if he’s concentrating exceptionally hard on scraping this line into the paper.

For whatever reason, you tell him, “My mother always told me I was born ten thousand years too late.”

His pen slips from his hand, rolling off the desktop and onto the floor. “What did she mean by that?”

“I don’t really know. But I remember she said it to me a bunch of times.”

Gideon stands up slowly. He shuffles around to the other side of the desk to retrieve his writing utensil. “Well, I wouldn’t put too much stock into that. Sounds like crazy talk to me, Cepik.”

“Epic.”

“That’s what I said.” As he sits back down Gideon rubs his temple like he maybe bonked his head on the desk reaching down for his pen. “Tell me, have you ever had made-up arguments in your head? Where you get angry at strangers for no obvious reason?”

“I don’t think so.”

He holds one of the colored papers up, a ways away from his face as though his vision is failing him. “These drugs you’re on? Pristiq. Lexapro. Vivactil. Why was Griffin prescribing all these? A lot of them are basically for the same thing, just tailored towards the needs and preferences of different patients.”

“I don’t know. This is just what he gave me.”

Every morning you take one 10mg Lexapro escitalopram oxalate tablet, one 100mg Pristiq desvenlafaxine tablet and two 10mg Oxycontin oxycodone hydrochloride tablets. You take one 10mg Vivactil protriptyline hydrochloride tablet during meals, at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Also with your dinner you have two more 10mg Oxycontin tablets. Before bed you toss back four 25mg Sinequan doxepin capsules. And throughout the day, depending on a variety of factors (among them, headaches and boredom), you might also have some aspirin and Tylenol here and there. Maybe some indigestion relief too. You’ve got a prescription for some cannabinoids as well but you’ve never used them; they go directly from your hand into the pocket of Armand Bester, a co-worker of yours.

“Why not list your symptoms for me? Everything you told Doctor Griffin.”

“Ah, I don’t know.” You’ve never been very good at talking about yourself. Or more specifically, your faults, weaknesses and deficiencies. Gideon puckers his lips as though wanting to say something he shouldn’t. You don’t give him the chance. “Depression, mostly. I guess insomnia. Chronic pain. Headaches. Feelings of not belonging. A lack of focus, maybe.”

“Paranoia?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

“Have you ever had thoughts of suicide?”

You lean back a little, hands on your arms like a gentle hug. You’re unsure of how best to answer but manage to sputter, “Hasn’t everyone?”

“It’s a serious question, Epic,” says the man picking his nose and wearing the wrinkled Surf Tofino t-shirt.

“I was being serious. I just mean it’s probably a fairly common thought. That’s all. I would think it’s highly improbable these days that you could find somebody who hasn’t considered killing themselves.”

“I haven’t,” he says to you, almost boasting. “Not once.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“Do you find that strange?”

“Of course I do! With all the crap being shit upon us daily I find it impossible. Actually, it’s inconceivable to me.”

“How far did you get?” he asks, and jots a few more lines down in the book. Before you have an answer for him, Gideon rearranges his question: “How close did you come?”

The heat is only intensifying. It’s unstoppable. Outside you hear some vehement banging of metal on metal, like somebody hitting a mailbox with a lead pipe. Car horns sound more like cries for help. You visualize that airplane droning in the far distance is actually nose-diving straight towards the earth. Maybe directly towards you. Even the couch cushions feel more intimidating now, though you can’t seem to stop yourself from sinking ever further into their plushy hold. You try to collect your thoughts. There’s something concrete in there somewhere but it eludes you. You’re having a hard time placing it. Your mouth is so dry. “Not very.” You rub your throat and ask, “Could I please get a glass of cold water?”

“In a minute,” he says, scribbling madly in the journal. Still writing and without looking up Gideon asks, “Have you ever cogitated upon various methods of suicide? For example, jumping in front of the subway? Hanging yourself? A bullet or crossbow bolt to the head?”

A crossbow bolt? That is grim. You try to put yourself into the shoes of any such alternative suicide but all your brain can come up with is: Anatomical Models. All-weather tires. Car mufflers. Pasteurized honey.

“Epic?”

You open your eyes and see that there’s now a glass of water on the table beside you, a bulbous pool already formed beneath it due to the humidity. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You know, pills are probably the worst way to go. If you’re just hoping for the easiest way out of this, that is. You could be suffering for hours, days even. Or worse, you could wind up in the intensive care unit on suicide watch with nothing to do with your time but think about how horribly you failed. And now you’re even more screwed. That is not what I would call the easy route.”

You stare at him, wondering how he could be so rude and so honest at the same time.

“Well, it’s true. Go on, tell me it’s not.”

You guzzle all of the water in the glass at once and wipe your mouth with the long sleeve of your hoodie. “I suppose I haven’t really thought about it that much.”

“You should. If you’re making a commitment like suicide, something that’s going to affect so many people down the line, you need to put as much thought into it as you can.”

A suicidal commitment? That sounds funny, you think. There’s already some form of commitment though, isn’t there? Isn’t everyone resolved to the fact that it’s irresistibly unavoidable? You’ll be dead and Gideon will be dead and Reya will be dead so what does it matter, really? Everything dies eventually. But there’s something tantalizing about maybe being in control of it. Setting your own deadline. “Have you ever looked forward to something so much that you wished you wouldn’t have to wait any longer? Like a movie or a dinner date with an awesome girl.”

“Of course.”

“That’s kind of what the thought of death is like for me. But the trouble is I’m not suicidal. It’s not in my programming. It doesn’t seem like an easy thing to do, even though doing it would mean not having to wait for death.”

“That’s an interesting perspective. But why is it you say you look forward to death? I mean, there’s no indication that things would be any better. In fact, all signs seem to point towards things being much worse. You know, with the fires of Hell and all that.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps there’s more; the possibility of something in your life that’s holding you back. Your mother, maybe?”

“I already told you. My mother is not a factor any more. She barely ever crosses my mind.”

“Your father then?”

Right now, your father is lying on a bed in a cancer ward. Brain cancer they told you, without saying much else. You wouldn’t say that the two of you have had a close relationship, but you certainly don’t hate him. Maybe though it’s because you haven’t wanted to exit this world before him? Like it would be selfish of you? Maybe once he’s gone it will be easier?

Still, you want to remind Gideon that there are plenty of examples of pills being an effective method. When it works it works, right? But you don’t wish to dwell on this. It’s not like you think about suicide every day. Why can’t he just move on? Why is it so fucking hot in here? You hold out the wet glass in your hand. “Could I please have some more water?”

“Let’s move on,” he says. Oh thank god. “You mentioned earlier about a sense of not belonging? How would you describe that?”

Not belonging. Now this, this you feel every day. “It’s not so much a social thing, more like a feeling that where I am is not where I’m meant to be. In a geographical sense.” You feel it every minute of every day.

“Where would you rather be?” he asks.

In your dreams you live in the country. You hear horses in the distance. You smell corn fields on the breeze. You see an old wooden fence, longer than the eye can see; the kind of fence that’s just a few tree branches held together with rusted wire and nails and looks like it’s been stretched across the land for two hundred years.

But you don’t share your dreams. Where would you rather be? Maybe it’s not so much a where as it is a what? Maybe you should have been something else. Like an octopus or a sea sponge that just sits there on the ocean floor. To be able to sit with nothing to do and nothing to worry about, to not even be aware that the concept of relationships or the very act of worrying about them existed in the first place would be so relaxing. Sometimes you think that admitting yourself into a mental institution would be the way to go. You could just sit around all day, maybe read that stack of old science fiction that’s been piling up. Maybe read some of them more than once. But the part of your brain that you hate the most tells you that would be the easy out. It would be the way to go if you wanted to avoid life rather than live it. So instead you find yourself getting punched outside a dive bar in Brighton Beach, right?

Gideon gets up from his seat and you realize you still haven’t answered his question. Seems like he’s not too worried about it though. He goes to the open window and slides it closed; the ruckus from the street is quickly muffled. Is he trying to set a better ambiance? Your thoughts have been a bit scattered. Maybe you’ll be able to think more clearly now.

You notice the journal he’s been writing in now lays closed upon his desktop. Its lilac hue is a very distinct color and there’s some sort of imagery on the cover that you can’t make out from this angle. A beaver maybe? Some Medieval spiked maces?

You look back up. He’s staring at you now, his back to the outside world, bum resting upon the windowsill. The way he studies you with his eyes makes you feel as though he’d planted the notebook purposefully and he’s just waiting to see what you might do with the opportunity. But that can’t be it. You can tell he’s really just waiting for another answer to another question that you’ve missed. Whatever it might have been.

“I don’t know,” is what you leave for him to disseminate.

“What do you mean you don’t know? It’s a very straightforward question.”

“Maybe you could ask me again?”

Gideon returns to his desk and reels the journal back in towards him protectively. My precious, you think. Pulling open one of the desk drawers, he slowly slides the journal, the folder and the pen away, like he’s all done taking notes and whatever the question was that he had asked was for no greater reason than to wrap things up with you. He makes sure to lock the drawer with a key he has attached to a rubber band around his left wrist that you hadn’t noticed before now. How did you not notice that before? Gideon crosses his arms, places his elbows on the desk and says, “I asked you if all of this is about a girl.”

You don’t wish to dwell on it longer than you need to, but you also did not foresee yourself answering so quickly. You say, “Isn’t it always?”

He unfolds his arms and steeples his long fingers together. Still without any indication that he’s planning on writing any of this new information down, Gideon says, “So tell me about her then.”

How do you just tell him about Reya? Where would you start? Her eyes were a wonderful electric green, like Kermit the Frog or the freshest pesto. Her wispy hair was always getting stuck in the corner of her mouth, wasn’t it? You used to brush it away for her before you realized she didn’t mind the loose strands. And actually, they were only helping to make Reya seem more like she was meant to be. Should you tell him about that wonderful gap between her front teeth? Or her laugh? Her laugh scared you, didn’t it? The way she cackled maniacally but usually only when she heard the lamest of jokes. When something was really, truly funny though, she’d simply smile a gap-toothed smile and say, “That was really funny.” It’s the way she appeared from across a crowded room, especially in the moments when she didn’t know anyone was watching her. There’s that face that people have when their guard is down and they’re not paying attention. Their muscles relax and they look sad or angry or simply approachable. Reya didn’t have that face, did she? Hers was even more beautiful when she wasn’t paying attention. She was always holding her elbows in her palms, like there was nowhere better for her hands to be.

But what if you told Gideon that Reya was the girl you felt you were always waiting for? Do you tell him that she told you the same thing? That you were meant to find her that night she was mugged outside the subway? That you miss her terribly? You miss her so much more than you’ve ever missed anyone.

You miss her, you know you do, but it also feels a lot like a longing. Like the hardest part is still to come. Kind of like there’s still more missing to be had.

But then again, maybe you could just say what he wants to hear. Maybe you’ll lie and tell him it was all very simple: you were in a shitty relationship that you knew would be shitty right from the start. She said her phone was acting stupid and that she’d call you back but then she never did. And then it was over. Just like that. Why not tell him that? Seems like it would be a much easier problem for the man to fix. That is what he wants from you, isn’t it? He doesn’t really want to put a lot of work into this; staying awake all night worrying about those unbearably messed up patients of his. Wouldn’t a therapist honestly prefer the easy route? Someone who can be fixed with a single visit? Here, take two of these! Great, thanks Doc. I’m all better now! Yay! And you don’t really want to be here with him either, do you? You’d rather Doctor Griffin hadn’t killed himself so selfishly.

“She’s gone,” you say instead of everything else you’re thinking. What you don’t say is that except for the giant cavity in your heart she used to fill, it’s like she was never really even here.

“And so that is simply that?”

“What more could there be?” you ask him bluntly. “What about everyone else? Isn’t this all that’s ever left eventually?”

“Perhaps so.” Gideon slumps a little further into his chair. “Let me ask you this: do you ever find yourself jumping into things a little too quickly?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of myself as being so impulsive or overly reactive.”

“I’d think again. Consider the drugs you’re on. Did you question Griffin’s prescriptions at all or did you just run to the pharmacist and load up? How about that bruise on your face? Typically, one does not get punched in the mouth at a bar due to meticulously planned and well-thought-out actions. Your mother left you and it doesn’t seem to have ever bothered you. I mean, I’d be contemplating that shit for a long time. Blaming myself. Most anyone would, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t really know what’s normal for most people.”

“You talked about suicide like it was nothing more than zipping up your coat on a cold day.”

“Only because you asked me about it.”

“Nevertheless. It seems as though your thoughts of suicide creep up on you pretty fast. Like it’s no big deal.”

“Well it’s not like I’ve ever seen it through.”

“Obviously. Still, I find it of particular concern.”

You can’t tell if what he’s saying is just more psychobabble – leaning a bit heavier on the babble-end of things – or if it’s all starting to make sense and you simply don’t want to accept it. Either way, your thoughts default to something, to anything else.

Sports trophies. Combat Knives. Elliptical machines. Pink Lego. Sticky notes. Multi-colored sticky notes. Fun-shaped sticky notes.

It doesn’t feel like you’re out as long as usual since Gideon is still staring at you, in the exact same position he was before your eyes rolled back into your head.

Then he says, “Maybe all this zoning out you’ve been doing is what leads to the overwhelming feelings you have. Maybe you need to slow things down a bit. Try some pleasure delaying. I think that maybe you’re simply too quick to slip back into your comfort zones, whatever they may be. I’d suggest taking some time before making that decision. Let the potential repercussions of it all sink in a little first.”

The last time you saw him, Doctor Griffin had suggested that perhaps you should be taking more risks, which is why you’re sitting here now with this bruise that’s making your face throb in pain. He gave you a lot of suggestions for finding happiness, but this was the last one he offered before he killed himself. You don’t tell Gideon that. “Pleasure delaying,” you say. “I’ll consider that.”

“Then I’d say we made some progress here,” he proclaims, patting himself on the back. “Not bad for a Day One.”

Progress. Oh yes. Leaps and bounds. You can barely begin to imagine just how much your life is about to change.

Gideon unlocks his desk drawer and removes the journal, flipping it open to the page he had previously made notes on. “Now how about I write up a prescription for a couple of new things?”

“You’re giving me more drugs?”

“Different drugs. You won’t be taking any more of that crap Griffin was giving you.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? To just stop the meds my body is used to?”

“If your body was used to the drugs they’d be working, wouldn’t they?” He takes a look over your sheet and considers the list of medications you’re already on. “Here,” he concedes. “I’ll keep up your prescription for the Vivactil and the cannabinoids, but the rest have got to go. Let me just write these up for you at the front desk.” Gideon takes the journal with him as he makes for the door. “This won’t take long, Epic. Please, just stay seated here for a few minutes.”

A gust of cool air from the front office gushes in as soon as Gideon opens the door. He slams it shut behind him, and the Lovehunter album rattles against the wall and the naked woman on the cover has to straddle that snake a little tighter just to hold on. You only have seconds to enjoy what’s left of the breeze before it’s gone, consumed entirely by the humidity. From outside, the screaming from the wild parade intensifies. You don’t know if Gideon had literally meant for you to remain where you were when he instructed you to stay seated, but you get up and move to the window anyway. From the top of a giant purple octopus float a half-dozen men are firing into the crowd with over-sized water guns. There are hoses from the back of each cannon connected to a gigantic tub of ice water that sloshes about as the float slowly navigates over potholes. You feel like a kid again at the window, hoping they might take aim upon you. You’d certainly open this window if they did. Luna Park ripples in the background; the heat and dry air making it appear to be dancing along with the party on Surf Avenue.

And then you spot her. No, it’s not Reya. Not even close. Her short hair is bleached white, almost the color of apple meat, and a dark pink stripe is painted above her left ear. She wears big sunglasses. You see the tiniest glints of a pierced eyebrow, a nose stud and a lip ring, all lined up along her left side too, making her face appear jarringly unsymmetrical. Despite the heat, she wears a green army jacket and for good measure a flannel shirt is tied around her waist. Like she thought it was 1994 and she was heading out to a Pearl Jam concert. What catches your attention instantly however is seeing her stand amidst the crowd. You can’t tell if it’s her presence or lack thereof. Even the water spraying madly from the float seems to be avoiding her, like she has an invisible field of force surrounding her or she exists in a different plane of reality. She sticks out because she isn’t watching the parade with the same kind of general interest and enthusiasm as everyone else. It’s almost as though she’s trying to figure out what the point of it all is. She’s not dancing on the spot or eating candy floss or wearing some garish costume; this girl remains within her own quiet pocket universe.

Just as you’re about to turn away, she looks up. She looks to the window where you’re so blatantly spying. You almost jump back out of sight but you don’t move an inch. You stand your ground. There’s a slightly crooked smile on her face, and even though she’s wearing sunglasses you can still tell her eyes are an unusual color. You don’t know why you know this, but you do. The only thing you’re hearing right now is the near-silent buzzing of some bug in this office.

And she very cautiously raises her right arm, opens her fingers as slowly as a flower blooming, and waves at you. It’s obvious she’s not even sure why exactly. You can see the confusion on her face. People are constantly saying things like, “I can read her like an open book,” which you always thought was stupid and made no sense at all. But now you get it.

Ten thousand years too late maybe, but now you finally get it.

You’re quick to take your new prescription from Gideon. He prattles on about something or other and the two of you eventually agree to meet again in a week. He’ll send an email, he says, placing the cool palm of one hand into yours and the other upon your shoulder. You’re not really locking any of it in; you shake his hand, stuff the prescription into your pocket and bound down the flight of stairs that takes you back out onto Surf Avenue.

The parade is practically over by the time you’re outside. The floats are all out of sight and the crowd is already thinning out, most everyone heading into the park. You try to find the spot where the girl with the white hair was standing, but it wouldn’t matter if you were exactly where her awkward feet were planted. She is most definitely gone.

This is the part where you begin to question everything. What are the chances that she wasn’t really looking at you? Perhaps the timid smile and wave were meant for someone else. Was she even here at all? Is the heat making you delirious? It’s entirely possible that your prosopagnosia has you fooled, and maybe you’re looking for someone you’re falsely recollecting. Maybe you’ve completely forgotten her already and compensating with some made-up details?

You pick up a large, plastic trident from the sidewalk, discarded by who knows what kind of fantasy sea creature. The police crews and piles of garbage along the parade route are very nearly the only signs left of the festivities that blew through here just minutes ago. The memories you’re hoping to find are perhaps only less real than the mermen and mermaids who presumably once-presided over Surf Avenue.