Page 31 of Physical Therapy

“You think you know what I want?” She inches closer, eyes hard.

“I do. And I think subconsciously you know that too.”

My hold lightens on her wrist. She sets her hand against my chest and sighs, ducking her chin to hide her face. “I’m so conflicted, Boe.”

“Why?” Isn’t it clear? We’re attracted to one another. Easy.

“Because logically I can see why I’m so drawn to you. But if I do my job—” Edith lifts her chin once more to pin me with pained eyes “—then you change. And if you change…”

“You think you won’t want me?”

She nods, sagging against me. I do something I haven’t for a long time and wrap my arms around her to provide comfort. The position isn’t one I’m accustomed to anymore. I’m the last person people turn to for reassurance.

“So I change therapist then.” I lean back to see her.

She frowns up at me, lips downturned. “And what will they do? Huh?”

My face falls as I bind her tight again. “Change me.”

“Exactly,” she whispers.

We stand together for an impossible minute, seemingly lost in our heads as we each try to figure this out. We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, literally.

“What if I pretend?” I offer. “You teach me how to bullshit the court fuckers, and I’ll do it.”

“It wouldn’t work.” She nestles closer, settling her arms around my waist.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll re-offend and they’ll question everything I say in the report.”

Damn my fucking temper. I’d love to say that I won’t, but my pattern of offending suggests otherwise, doesn’t it?

I break from Edith and step away to get the rage that boils under the surface back in control. She hugs herself, hands rubbing her upper arms in reassuring strokes. She seems so… fragile. She shouldn’t be. The woman is my therapist. She’s supposed to be rock solid no matter what shit gets thrown her way. Yeah, but it’s always different when it applies directly to you, isn’t it?

“I—I’ll go.” Her brow furrows as she drops her chin and appears to search for something. “Have you seen my purse?”

“You didn’t bring anything else but the food,” I snap.

Her back goes straight, her eyes wide as she freezes on the spot and stares at me. “Shit. The food!”

Her coat slides open in her haste, the sight something comical as though from a movie. A stunning brunette who sprints through my apartment in her lingerie, coat streaming behind her like a fucking superhero cape.

I smile. And then I laugh at the string of obscenities accompanying the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

Fuck me. Maybe the woman is a superhero? A mere second ago I was ready to let rip and lay into her for being so damn flimsy. And now… Now my anger wanes, the hilarity of the situation we find ourselves in enough of a balm to soothe my bruised ego.

“Damn it, Boe,” she cries as I approach. “The food is dry as hell. It’s ruined.” Her arms flail at her sides, the coat slipped from one shoulder.

“We’ll get something else delivered.” I chuckle. “Come here.”

Edith falls into my arms, the position already welcoming and familiar. I dot a kiss to her head and then rest my smile against her crown.

Perhaps we all have our shortcomings? But why should that impact what we think of ourselves? It’s our rough edges that make us tangible for others to love. Without the grit, without the imperfections, we’d lose grip of one another.

By wearing our faults for all to see, we give them something to adhere to.

We allow friction.

And with friction, you create fire.

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