“You were going to tell me something”, she
said, just before she got into her taxi. “I’m
sorry I cut you off. Only I didn’t want you to
say anything, you know, too personal,
without telling you first about how things
were with me and...”
“It doesn’t matter”, I said.
“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem
different.”
“I’m fine.”
“I want you to know that if you ever need
me, I’ll always be there for you.”
“There?” I said. “I don’t know about you but
I’m here. Where’s there?”
I held open the door of the cab for her. I couldn’t help hearing that the address she gave
the driver wasn’t hers and she drove away.
I walked away in another direction.
Quite often after writing these short stories or scenes, I feel like I’ve been in therapy. I’ve
never had therapy but I imagine this feels just like it.
John Wilson, February 2018
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