I Was Just in the Neighborhood
by Angelica Terso
Smoked salmon on flat everything bagel. No capers. Light on cream cheese.
I have a feeling she’ll regret that last part. She has weakness for anything creamy and cheesy.
But giving in to your wants, every once in a while, is being kind to yourself, I remember from our last session.
A little low-fat indulgence won’t hurt her, anyway. Her body looks like what it would’ve looked like when she was still in her early twenties. Only now, she looks even better. Sadder, yes. But wiser and richer. Wise enough to give people advice and get paid for it. And rich enough to hire a personal trainer to yell nonsense at her while she slams heavy balls against the wall three times a week. Ugh, how I wish my ass and breasts still look like that.
She doesn’t reach for a napkin when a dollop of white gets stuck on the corner of her mouth, but her cute little tongue peeks out and lingers on the skin. It should disgust me--an attractive professional in her stylish two-piece green suit, devouring her morning bagel with not a care in the world who could be watching. I take a bite of my own bagel, and wish I was more like her. And yet even in the comfort of my own office, I dab my lips with a neatly folded napkin out of sheer habit. One just never knows when someone will barge in uninvited. Not that there’s anything wrong with what I’m doing. People watching café goers from across the street isn’t a crime.
Besides, a woman like her must know she’s always being watched. And the thought that she’s gracing me with a show of her teasing tongue tickles my stomach that I’m tempted to cross the street, take her hand, and drive off into the sunset like Sandy and Danny Zuco.
Fantasizing is a healthy human experience. It doesn’t harm anyone if used as a coping mechanism.
See? Even psychologists are on my side.
She picks up her cappuccino but puts it back down as she notices the steam still steadily rising. Even from here, I can see that her ring finger is bare. It has been for a while. Three weeks to be exact. The Monday after Easter, I stared at the pale outline for the whole hour we were together. I know she saw me looking, but she was kind enough not to embarrass me for being the least bit curious.
Her late husband has been dead for over a year. Is this her way of telling me she’s ready to move on? Does she feel the same way? Will she finally confess during our appointment today?
Her being mysterious just adds to her allure, even more than the fact that we only see each other once a week in a stuffy room, talking about anything and everything that isn’t about the two of us.
But I want more than just an hour a week. I want more than just the polite professional interactions. I want more than just the zoomed-out image of her eating her bagel and sipping her coffee. I want her.
And I know people may think this whole thing is cliché. Inappropriate thoughts between patient and therapist. Middle aged woman lusting after another woman. Blah blah blah.
But these feelings are real, I swear.
Over time, we learn to lean into our feelings--that thing in your chest is the key to your ultimate happiness.
She pushes her chair back and throws away her half-eaten bagel and I do the same. Our 10 am appointments have been the only thing that make Mondays bearable. And today is even more special. Today’s the day we’re going to tell each other how we feel.
I shrug into my blazer and reach for my oversized purse, wondering if there’s anyone else that hears the loud thumping in my chest as I imagine myself kissing the face I’ve been dreaming about even while I’m awake.
I have a hard time concentrating as I put on my lipstick, my shaky hands failing to follow the outline of my mouth, that I barely hear the light knock on my door.
“Your ten o’clock canceled, by the way. I cleared your calendar. I thought you saw.”
This receptionist is new--two weeks new, in fact. Otherwise, she’d know to personally tell me about last minute cancellations instead of expecting me to check my own fucking calendar.
“Sorry?”
“Your ten o’clock. Lara Quinta? The consultant from Warner? She canceled. The rest of her sessions too.”
My mouth is dry all of a sudden, a smacking sound coming out of it as I force it open. “Did she say why?”
“Just that she didn’t need your services anymore,” the receptionist shrugs. “New patient is here early.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I sit back down on the oversized chair. “That’s fine. Send them in.”
The red heels come first. And when I see the rest of her, an intense jolt shocks my body from head to toe, something I haven’t felt since what’s her face first came into my practice months ago.
Grace Cho, the file says, along with her address and every other personal identifying details. Her smile is the most radiant thing I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are bright and hopeful. Her voice is harmonic, not too high, but just low enough. And most importantly, her ring finger is bare.
I am certain I am in love.
But this time feels different, I swear.
I have a feeling she’ll regret that last part. She has weakness for anything creamy and cheesy.
But giving in to your wants, every once in a while, is being kind to yourself, I remember from our last session.
A little low-fat indulgence won’t hurt her, anyway. Her body looks like what it would’ve looked like when she was still in her early twenties. Only now, she looks even better. Sadder, yes. But wiser and richer. Wise enough to give people advice and get paid for it. And rich enough to hire a personal trainer to yell nonsense at her while she slams heavy balls against the wall three times a week. Ugh, how I wish my ass and breasts still look like that.
She doesn’t reach for a napkin when a dollop of white gets stuck on the corner of her mouth, but her cute little tongue peeks out and lingers on the skin. It should disgust me--an attractive professional in her stylish two-piece green suit, devouring her morning bagel with not a care in the world who could be watching. I take a bite of my own bagel, and wish I was more like her. And yet even in the comfort of my own office, I dab my lips with a neatly folded napkin out of sheer habit. One just never knows when someone will barge in uninvited. Not that there’s anything wrong with what I’m doing. People watching café goers from across the street isn’t a crime.
Besides, a woman like her must know she’s always being watched. And the thought that she’s gracing me with a show of her teasing tongue tickles my stomach that I’m tempted to cross the street, take her hand, and drive off into the sunset like Sandy and Danny Zuco.
Fantasizing is a healthy human experience. It doesn’t harm anyone if used as a coping mechanism.
See? Even psychologists are on my side.
She picks up her cappuccino but puts it back down as she notices the steam still steadily rising. Even from here, I can see that her ring finger is bare. It has been for a while. Three weeks to be exact. The Monday after Easter, I stared at the pale outline for the whole hour we were together. I know she saw me looking, but she was kind enough not to embarrass me for being the least bit curious.
Her late husband has been dead for over a year. Is this her way of telling me she’s ready to move on? Does she feel the same way? Will she finally confess during our appointment today?
Her being mysterious just adds to her allure, even more than the fact that we only see each other once a week in a stuffy room, talking about anything and everything that isn’t about the two of us.
But I want more than just an hour a week. I want more than just the polite professional interactions. I want more than just the zoomed-out image of her eating her bagel and sipping her coffee. I want her.
And I know people may think this whole thing is cliché. Inappropriate thoughts between patient and therapist. Middle aged woman lusting after another woman. Blah blah blah.
But these feelings are real, I swear.
Over time, we learn to lean into our feelings--that thing in your chest is the key to your ultimate happiness.
She pushes her chair back and throws away her half-eaten bagel and I do the same. Our 10 am appointments have been the only thing that make Mondays bearable. And today is even more special. Today’s the day we’re going to tell each other how we feel.
I shrug into my blazer and reach for my oversized purse, wondering if there’s anyone else that hears the loud thumping in my chest as I imagine myself kissing the face I’ve been dreaming about even while I’m awake.
I have a hard time concentrating as I put on my lipstick, my shaky hands failing to follow the outline of my mouth, that I barely hear the light knock on my door.
“Your ten o’clock canceled, by the way. I cleared your calendar. I thought you saw.”
This receptionist is new--two weeks new, in fact. Otherwise, she’d know to personally tell me about last minute cancellations instead of expecting me to check my own fucking calendar.
“Sorry?”
“Your ten o’clock. Lara Quinta? The consultant from Warner? She canceled. The rest of her sessions too.”
My mouth is dry all of a sudden, a smacking sound coming out of it as I force it open. “Did she say why?”
“Just that she didn’t need your services anymore,” the receptionist shrugs. “New patient is here early.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I sit back down on the oversized chair. “That’s fine. Send them in.”
The red heels come first. And when I see the rest of her, an intense jolt shocks my body from head to toe, something I haven’t felt since what’s her face first came into my practice months ago.
Grace Cho, the file says, along with her address and every other personal identifying details. Her smile is the most radiant thing I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are bright and hopeful. Her voice is harmonic, not too high, but just low enough. And most importantly, her ring finger is bare.
I am certain I am in love.
But this time feels different, I swear.
Angelica Terso (she/her/hers) enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and is currently working on her first fiction novel. Her stories feature LGBT, Asian Americans, and other under-represented themes. She resides in Maryland, USA with her loving partner and the sweetest dog. When she’s not writing, reading, or daydreaming, she’s either hiking or rock climbing. You can find her on Instagram @angelicatersowrites.