I’m sure there’s going to be a point, but I wish he’d get to it. Lately, he’s been a little all over the place. I’m annoyed by that smudge on his glasses, by Lydia flushing all of my Benadryl down the toilet last night. I’m sorry, she said, but it seemed to be about much more than swirling away those pink pills. Something is going on with Lydia. For the last two weeks, she’s been late instead of exactly on time and sometimes cancels on me altogether. She makes vague excuses, her cheeks flush and she rakes her teeth across the pink lip gloss on her bottom lip. She is a terrible liar. Eventually, Lydia will tell me what is wrong, so I don’t bug her. Of course, two sentences into the doctor’s tale, I’m wondering if he’s lying. He says he was a chubby boy and yet he’s got all that wiry muscle under the shirt with the collar that stands like a pinned white butterfly. I bumped up against his arm once. It was immovable, concrete, a runner’s leg extending from his shoulder.
