Tell it to me any way you like but don’t stop talking. Please. I hear what I need to hear. We’ll make a deal. I’ll dunk this misshapen donut into this bad coffee and chew on this cigarette and not get drunk for an hour. And not talk back. I’ll thank my precious life for the sound of your voice; meanwhile, you tell your version of the story we all know all too well. What a lousy chair this is. I’d like to put it and its short leg through a window. But that would be wrong. It wouldn’t show the gratitude I feel. And anyway, rooms like these don’t have windows for the same reason bars don’t have windows. Oh, Felicia. Each day is more exhausting than the day before, then you get up and say your name and what you are and talk. Outside, we do nothing but get in each other’s way, you and me and all the others; here we sit in neat rows and face in the same direction, looking at you to help us in your turn. Hi, Felicia. You tell your stupid story of how you stupidly complicate your stupid problems, too stupid to see you cause them yourself and I swear on my life one more time that coming here is worse than any other problem I have and that I’ll never be back. And then I come back. If the meetings were held upstairs, Felicia, I’d have to go somewhere else, but in the basement at least there are no icons and we take our turns on the cross. I may have turned a corner, Felicia. The stupid things you say are starting to sound like the stupid things I say. Maybe I’m not the smartest drunk in the room.
Copyright © March 02, 2008 David Hodges
Felicia Anonymous « Very Short Novels
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