The air condition wheezed vapid air. He nervously attempted to adjust the nobs, thinking that there was some temperature that would ease his nerves. He had pulled into a space along the curb to initiate their usual parting conversation.
It was a beautiful day.
She looked better. He thought himself so brilliant for never making a move before she got help.
“In a very real way, I feel alone,” he would say, nonchalantly, to someone that would have his blues, “more so when I am with people than when I am alone.” He would take a sip of coffee and stare out into anything ajar. “Because it feels, sometimes—critical times, that they don’t see the things I see.”
Imagine a crowded theater packed to its fullest capacity. The theater darkens and the movie rolls and at a punch line you are the only one laughing.
“I don’t think I am getting better—” she said. He toyed with touching her hand, as well as the idea of putting any meaning behind it.
“You are working against years of trained behavior. You have to be patient.”
She hid her eyes in her forward stare. He admired her profile, the complexion of her skin. A damsel in distress. He probed his mind for mystic words of deliverance and found himself falling short.
He later wished he had told her, “I have unyielding faith that you will find your throne.”
“When I went to the doctor they said I was… I can’t remember the word they used. Not hysterical but…”
“No, that wasn’t it… if you say it I will be sure to tell you… They wanted to commit me but when they were getting me a bed I walked out.”
He had never been this far along in the story before. He found comfort when she began getting help but he had never been prepared for when the help doesn’t.
He later wished had told her, “I have unyielding faith that you will find your throne.”
A tear flowed from her eyes. He reached to wipe it. She refused his hand. He reached to hug her. Her embrace rigid, yet less so, than the times before. He nestled his head on her shoulder and whimpered that he loved her. She said nothing.