Already two painful weeks had flown away since my life had gone from happiness to despair. I especially didn't want to tell the sorrowful truth to anyone, 'I have been dumped for nebulous excuses and I am too foolish to understand them.'
A week later, when my mom called, worried, to have some news, I lied. I invented that we were really busy redecorating the bedroom. In fact, I was sleeping on a blue foam camping mattress since the strange departure of my girlfriend and the majority of the furniture, including the bed.
In a way, I was alone in the world. I have rapidly learned that my friends were her friends. With this sudden separation, they had chosen their side. Unfortunately, they had not chosen mine. My best boyhood friend, Henri, was gone for still six months on an all-around-the-globe trip. I had declined his offer to go with him because my girlfriend was not hot about being separated a whole year. I wished I had accepted: at least I would enjoy a trip instead of chewing over my drama all by myself. I still had some colleagues with whom I could talk, but I had no intention to tell them about my vessel that was dreadfully sinking.
These days, when we have no one to talk, we pay someone: a shrink. It's a bit like prostitution. Here what would be the motto: 'You don't have any friends, come and bother us with your problems! We'll be happy to sporadically shake our head for the modest sum of 100$ per hour!' At least, it is very common and maybe even a bit fashion to seek advices from a psychologist. Anyway, who doesn't consult these days? Everybody have problems!
The day was gray and dreary. The temperature would not even attain fifteen degrees for this mid-July week. Since my life was as dull as the day, I looked in the pile of no longer folded clothes for something colorful. In no time to tell, I had chosen a pair of low-rise dark-blue jeans with a white leather belt, a flash canary-yellow polo and the pair of shoes that fit the kit: yellow and white Airwalk snickers. I was now ready to eliminate some bugs in my head. After some reading in the telephone book, I decided to go to the Doctor McTavish's office, a pretty clinic on Van Horne. I chose this one in particular instead of the thousand others in the Yellow Pages because the concept seemed pretty interesting. They offered to the client the possibility to fill in a questionnaire while sipping a free drink to better define its vices or problems. Therefore, according to the small publicity, the visit to the shrink would be more efficient and more satisfying. Obviously, it's a good way to break the ice with this new paid friend.
After thirty minutes of bus, what would have taken five minutes maximum in car, I descended directly in front of the clinic that looked shamefully uglier than the yellow and black picture in the telephone book. In fact, the picture must have been taken centuries ago. Unfortunately, none of the past owners had put efforts in refreshing the look.
Less and less certain of my move, I pushed the peeling gray door while I was foreseeing that it was surrounded with earwigs. I have a real aversion of those: they are so ugly and their solely name gives me Goosebumps. Distracted by the insect's colony, I had not noticed that the doorstep was higher than usual so I literally plunged into the tiny room. Thus, I landed in front of the receptionist who was bewitched with her manicure. With a haughty look, she threw me the famous questionnaire clipped on a lime-green plastic pad. I was so distracted by her moving lips that I had not understood a single word of what she had just said. The lady, in her forties, or maybe in her nineties, orange hair with visible gray-white root, had a lipstick as flash orange as her cheap artificial hair color. But the most disturbing thing was the burnt-orange line that oversized her lips. Was it meant to fool men so they would believe she had luscious lips? Or maybe she had just stayed in the eighties? In short, it was ugly. So I supposed that she was explaining that I had to seat in one of the two empty chairs in the small waiting room and fill in the wonderful questionnaire. Only one other chair was occupied with a young man who was filling what looked like the same form.
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General FictionThomas'so-called happiness was apparently not that strong and eternal. He could have been knocked over by a 'ten-wheels' and he would probably have gotten on his feet more quickly. He must have stayed hours on an uncomfortable footstool contemplati...
