The Doodling Miracle Maker

By Terveen Gill

Not her again.

She sits upon the sofa directly across from me.

Her purple hair and blonde eyebrows accentuate the green envy in her eyes.

There’s plenty staring back at me. I never break eye contact, so she decides to look away, apparently taking pity upon me.

The air conditioning seems to be failing. My underarms are sticky, my deodorant is deserting me, taking cover in my pores.

I cough for no reason; she replies with two coughs and a snort. It’s her signature way of making me feel inferior.

God knows why she comes to see me every Wednesday. It’s clear that she can’t stand me.

I’ve tried to be a good listener and an understanding soul, but that’s not good enough for Her Royal Highness, Queen of ‘I give a damn’, persecutor of the meek and softspoken.

And that’s her problem, though only one of many.

She’s too self-consumed to care for anybody.

Let’s not forget her envious side that’ll eat you alive if you’re not prepared to counter her spiteful volleys.

She twiddles her thumbs and hums a tune that’s nothing but noise. The clock is ticking, but she should be more concerned.

‘Sherry’s leaving me.’

Her words are laced with disdain. She rolls her eyes and drops an expletive. I owe it to her for reacquainting me with swearing.

‘How does that make you feel?’

My simple question doesn’t go down well with her.

‘How is it supposed to make me feel? You @%*&%$#!!’

I reprimand her and remind her to control her anger or else she would have to leave without any chance of returning.

‘You like threatening me, don’t you? Makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?’

She’s using her sultry tone with me, but it’ll get her nowhere.

I doodle a bit more in my diary. My doodling is getting better every day.

She rants on about her now ex-girlfriend. I nod and scribble more lines and circles.

My secretary buzzes me for the next appointment.

If this one is annoying, the next one is depressing. Half my tissue box is emptied in wiping away her tears.

I’m just a psychologist not a miracle maker.

That’s what my psychiatrist told me last Tuesday. And also that I may be in the wrong profession.

What does he know? He’s a @%*&%$#!!