The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.