This is the first part of a short story that I'm working on. I'm not sure if I really got the characters across the way I wanted, especially Phillip. =[
Tell me what you think, please. =]
Something Real
“So, you slept with her.”
Dr. Phillip Harlow only stated facts. Stating facts was his job. It seemed to him that people only ever understood why they did the things they do after someone else says it. They grasp the meaning of it. That it’s real.
“Yes.”
Mike’s eyes seemed vacant as he stared past Dr. Harlow. The realization was sinking in.
“Yes, I did.”
“And, why do you think you did?”
Wide eyes sunk again to Dr. Harlow’s face and he could see that there was no regret. A good sign.
“Because I love her.”
Dr. Harlow had seen people in love and it looked like this; a happy man, smiling as he passes strangers. He is focusing on where he is going. Maybe to work, maybe home, maybe out to buy a bottle of Bacardi. You don’t know. All you know is that he has purpose. Because that’s what love does to a person.
This is not how Mike looks. A bad sign.
Mike looks like a desperate man, who wants to believe he is in love. Dr. Harlow feels pressure to tell him that he is wrong. That she is a whore. That he is depressed.
But he won’t. Reminding a depressed person of there depression is not his job.
“Why do you love her?”
Mike looked confused. His eyebrows squished together, and his lips became thinner.
“Why do I love her?”
“Yes.”
Mike looked less confused. Dr. Harlow had stated another fact.
“Because she makes me happy,”
Dr. Harlow knew it wasn’t the girl that made Mike happy. It was the hope of change. The hope of something new in his life, something that could help him.
But this was a hope that couldn’t last long.
“What else makes you happy?”
Mike thought for a moment. It used to make Dr. Harlow sad that the people he saw everyday could list hundreds of reasons for their depression at the drop of a hat, but it took a while for them to find something that made them happy.
“I’m happy after I talk to you.”
People came to see Dr. Harlow when they were sad. They wanted to be fixed. To be told that things in their lives were different from the things in other people’s lives, and that they could be fixed by being analyzed. This was not true. Scheduled appointments let them feel a purpose. And questioning makes them feel interesting.
It was a great big self-esteem program for the chronically depressed.
“Are you in love with me?”
Dr. Harlow kept any amount of sarcasm out of his voice. He had trained his tongue to be kind to these people. He was there to comfort, not to mock.
“No,” Mike looked down at the floor. “I mean, you’re just nice to talk to.”
“And what do you talk with her about.”
Mike’s gaze moved from the floor to Dr. Harlow’s face, to the pictures that hung on the wall above him, to the ceiling. He gazed at it, eyes going unfocused.
“We talk about our dreams.”
“We talk about your dreams.”
“That’s the point. We only talk about my dreams. I don’t know anything about you.”
Dr. Harlow stared into Mike’s eyes as they looked up as the hanging lights. This was the first time a patient had asked about his life.
“This is a place for you. Not me-”
“What did you want to be when you were a kid, Dr. Harlow?”
Dr. Harlow had to think about it. He remembered when he was nine. He would use markers to color on his face and carry around a pack of cards to perform magic tricks that weren’t really that magic. His mom was furious when he broke a vase trying to juggle grapes.
“I wanted to be a clown.”
Mike nodded a slight grin showing across his lips.
“Marie wanted to be a chef.”
