Dr. B. told me to open my heart wide. I did and he saw stuff in there he can’t unsee. Like soft outrage hiding my inner dwarf and the fact that I am quite sick about vanished days, the ones that were all about me.
Dr. B. talked quietly and massaged my hands. He’s highly skilled and carries out established procedures.
“My feeling,” I said, “is hard and cold and physical. It’s like I’m your plumber; I’m one-track; step out of my way, I’ll fix your toilet. It’s like when I go to the mall they have to close the mall down.”
A blister on my hand burst and blood spewed over Dr. B.’s tan mohair suit. I noticed his pants had a perfect crease. He looked like a giant. He was slim, regal. He was elegant. His eyes scrunched and there were wrinkles in his forehead.
Dr. B. is really smart with his rescues such as when my lack of confidence gets me into jams. He told me to keep singing so he could stay awake. He said, “A worthy goal is – why not aim for the top of your competence?” He said, “Sleep well tonight,” and wished me great happiness. He said, “Here are some dog cookies to take home and, if you don’t have a dog, give them to someone deserving.” 