Grace. It feels about the same as an unwanted parasite gnawing away at the inside of your brain. I say “unwanted” because I know there are some parasites that are good for your body, or supposed to be, even if the thought of cohabiting with them really creeps you out. But Dr. Grace isn’t one of those good parasites. She’s ringworm. Every time I leave her, I feel a little less sure of myself as a human being. She hastily closes her laptop when I step inside her cramped office. She thinks I didn’t see the Pacman sprites on her laptop screen. I sit in the only available chair and stare at the blinds on the window. “You can talk to me about anything,” Dr. Grace says awkwardly. “Boys, TV…” “No, thanks.” She taps her fingers against her thigh. One time I sat in the chair and said nothing for an entire forty-five minutes. I think I can do that again if I focus on something else. Something more pleasant.
