The Green Chair

I am sitting in a chair. It is the most comfortable chair I have ever sat on in my entire life. It is emerald green, the same color that the top of a forest is if you look at it from above. It is so soft I feel like I could fall asleep. It is the sort of chair that is so wonderful, it makes me forget that my electricity has been shut off for a week at my shitty apartment. That I haven't spoken to my parents in over four months. That I haven't eaten anything since the chinese food I ordered at eleven o'clock last night. I am only thinking about how good this cigarette feels as I exhale, and this wonderful chair.

This is the first time I have ever been to a therapist. I stare at the man across the room in suspiscion. The vest he is wearing is the same color as the chair I am sitting in, and he wearing khaki pants. He is so tall and thin that he almost looks like a small tree. His glasses are too square for his face, and his hair is receeding. I think to myself that if he were to take off his clothes I would vomit on the freshly vaccuumed rug in his office. As he picks a notebook off of his desk I notice a wedding band on his finger, and immediately feel sorry for his wife.

He sits down in a brown leather chair across from me and crosses his long legs over one another. A small glass table separates us, an untouched ashtray restS on top of it. I take a drag from my Marlboro, and wait for him to say something. I look out of the window nonchalantly so that he will not know how terrified I am.

"Hello Miss Landon." He says without looking up from his notebook. He really fits the part well. I'm sure it took him many years of practice at home with his wife to give off the experienced therapist look. Honey, how do I look. Perfect dear, don't forget to get my laundry detergent on your way home.

"You can just call me Elyse." I reply, putting out my cigarette in the ashtray.

"How are we today Elyse." he says.

I hate when people say that. I don't know how we are doing. I only know how I am doing. And most of the time I don't even know that much.

"Lovely.' I respond, even though I know it is obvious to him that if I actually felt lovely I wouldn't be here.

"I'd like to begin our first session by asking you to simply vent to me. As if I am a close friend or you are writing in a diary. It might feel awkward at first, but just let it all out. I am l ears."

I nod, even though as soon as he says this I want to run out of the room. I'm silent for a moment because I have no idea what word to utter first. I light a cigarette.

"Well. I don't know what I am doing here. I don't know how any of this works, or what I am supposed to say to you. I can barely converse with the cashier at the grocery store. The only company I actually enjoy is my alcoholic best friend's, or my cat's. I even stopped dating altogether. I couldn't stand the monotony anymore. The bullshit. The guy picks me up, wearing blue jeans and buttonup shirt. Sprays too much cologne on himself, which I instictively cover up by lighting a cigarette as soon as I get in his car. We get to the bar. Cosmo please. He tells me about his job. How it doesn't pay much but he's finishing his degree soon. He has the best dog in the world. He likes baseball. He likes to travel. He orders another beer. Another cosmo for me please. And another. And another. Before I can ask myself why I am even on a date with this person, I am already drunk. I finish my sixth drink and go back to his apartment. We get in his bed. He either goes soft or finishes too early, which makes me hate him even more. We fall alseep. I wake up with a headache and search for my clothes. I make him drive me home. I don't speak the entire way. I just smoke my cigarette and pray that he will drive faster. When we get to my apartment he tells me what a great time he had and tries to kiss me. I pretend not to notice and turn my head. I mutter a 'thanks for the drinks' and stumble into my front door. I feed my cat, take a shower, and delete his number from my phone.

I swear off dating for about two weeks until I get tired of eating frozen dinners and laying on the couch with my cat everynight, so I agree to a date with another sorry bastard. Thus the cycle continues.

The therapist is staring at me, with no expression on his face. At this point I am smoking my third cigarette, and I feel that I have embarassed myself enough that nothing I say could possibly make this any worse.

But I can't think of anything. My heart is racing and I am sweating. I ask him to please open the window. I sit in the green chair, and let the breeze hit my face.

.