The Therapist

Sometimes when I feel blue, I go and see my therapist Mickey.

Mickey's a slightly chubby guy who wears a tuxedo. He has green eyes and a raspy voice. His voice grates on my nerves sometimes, but he never says very much anyway, actually just hello and goodbye and "Is that so?" He mostly let's me do the talking. And, though I usually despise having conversations with people, I love talking to Mickey. He sits very close to me, but is also very professional. Sometimes, if I feel especially down, he'll reach out and gently nudge my arm – you know, just to let me know everything's okay and he's listening attentively.

Today, I spoke with Mickey before lunch as usual. I told him about my job, how I've worked tirelessly at one place for 5 years ("Half a decade, Mickey!") and I didn't even get a cake. Hell, I didn't even get a "Good job!" or a "Well done!" or even a "Hey, good morning! Thanks for coming in relatively on time for the past 5 years."

I tell Mickey it shouldn't bother me. Lord knows I haven't had any encouragement (or mileage money) from my workplace for the past 5 years. Why should this irk me now? Sure, I slack sometimes like any employee, but the way I see things, I tell Mickey, is that an employee's going to put into a job exactly what she gets out of it.

"And you see how much I'm getting out of it, Mickey," I tell him.

"Mmmm-Mm," says Mickey in his throaty way.

Then I spill out all my problems to Mickey like a flat soda from a Styrofoam cup. "Tax season's coming up, Mickey." "I feel guilty that I haven't called my brother in so long, Mick." "Mickey, do I look fat? I know I'm not fat, but this black sweater, see …" Etc.

Mickey listens and blinks and throws out a monosyllabic answer every now and then. Then our visits end as usual, with Mickey saying in so many words, "Well, our time's almost up for today. And I must be getting home to supper. My girl's waiting, you see."

Then he trots off home through the parking lot – for his office is only a few feet from mine – with his belly swinging from side to side. I see his girl standing in the doorway waiting for him. She scoops Mickey up in her arms, scratches him under the chin and calls him "Walter." (I think Mickey is a much better name.)

Mickey licks her face with his rough pink tongue, kneads her chest with his paws and purrs and purrs.

And I try not to feel jealous that I don't have a cat.

- Maria Scarborough