How to Feed a Therapists Freezer

Getting in the mood to write can be fun.  Where can you allow your mind to go if you had ten minutes of time and permission to go wild? What if you could rewrite an encounter? Add magic to it? What could you imagine? This is my imagination at work in ten minutes. I’ve left the grammatical clunkiness in because first drafts are often full of odd bits.  Enjoy-

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My therapist’s waiting room has been the same for seventeen years. The pine furniture is fading, the fabric on the chairs isn’t. How could it? There are no windows in the waiting room.  There is a Dali print on the wall. I think its called Bowl of Fruit at the Beach*. There is a dog in there if you don’t look for it – taking pears and sand for its shape. I hate this image; it reminds me of my ex-husband, all fucked up, disturbed and wanting to shed his dysfunction onto people who loved him.

His mother came up to me on our wedding day, before the ceremony was about to begin, and told me I didn’t have to do it. I thought she was a bitch and horrible, but now I know she had my best interest at heart. She knew her own son.

“Holly,” the voice was familiar and made me queasy. Standing in the doorway, stepping out of the therapist’s main office stood Phil, my ex husband. His hair was greasy, his earlobes stretched by thick metal and his shiny forehead glared reflected light at me.

“Wow, you look good,” I said.

“Didn’t think you’d be coming here any more,” he said. He didn’t move out from the doorway. His clothes looked as if they’d been worn for days.

They reminded me of doing his laundry. I hated doing his laundry. I hated remembering that I once loved him enough to do his fucking laundry.

“You know, it’s good to check in. You look good,” I said again.

Bloodshot whites framed his dark brown eyes. Did he cry in there? I hoped he was a wreck, not that I even thought about him in 13 years. He was some haunted puppet of a man who controlled my life when I was in my twenties.

I stood up, smacked his face and opened the mini frig hidden inside the pine cabinet, shoving his 6’3” frame into the frost crusted six inch freezer. It was awesome how it swallowed him. I had to kick the top of his skull a bit to jam him the rest of the way. Snowflakes sparkled out of the freezer once it ingested him, like a polite belch.

“If I knew you liked assholes I would have fed you sooner,” I said to the freezer.

“I like left over’s and pieces. He was a piece of something posing as a man- child. They are tasty. All those self inflicted tortured doubts fill me up,” The freezer said. “Please bring me more.”

“I’ll be right back,” my therapist said taking the key to the bathroom out from a drawer.

I think she was smirking. Why do office buildings lock their bathrooms? Who do they think will ride a white elevator up a few floors to pee?

“Come now, you have anything else for me?”

“No, but I’m thirsty, “ I said. “May I have some of your water?”

The refrigerator door closed. “Best not.”

*Actual print is Dali’s 1938 Apparition of a Face and Fruit Dish on a Beach.

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