looking forward to going
back to work next week and I’m getting stir-crazy and lonely in the apartment.”
The waitress came with our drinks. When she
left, I asked, “and this is good?”
“It is, yes. When I moved in, I was sunk in
situational depression and I didn’t mind not working or being alone in my
apartment. All I wanted was to stay in my sweats, eat ice cream out of the box,
and watch bad TV. I’m coming back to life and that’s good. It’s also a
confirmation that my depression was situational and not clinical, which is very good.”
“Would I regret it if I asked
the difference between situational and clinical depression?”
“Nah. It’s one of the few completely
clear concepts in my line of work. Situational depression means you’re
depressed because your situation is depressing, and you’d be crazy not to be depressed. Clinical depression
is the serious kind, when it’s something going on with you, not the objective
situation. It’s the one that’s hard to deal with.”
“I see.” I thought a moment. “Are you allowed
to use terms like ‘crazy’? I thought that was frowned on.”
“It is. I’m counting on you not to turn me in.
Also, I’m not big on the unimportant rules like that. Important stuff, like
don’t sleep with your patients, or don’t gossip about them, I’m a stickler for,
but what terms to use… meh .”
The pizza came. I love pepperoni pizza. I don’t
care that it’s not an authentic Italian dish, and I certainly don’t care that
what we get here is nothing like what they eat in New York. I just love it.
We thanked the waitress, served ourselves, and
each took a first bite. It was great.
Then the reprieve was over. Susan pointed at
me. “Your turn,” she said sternly. “Tell me all.”
And so I did. I told her virtually all that
Bert and I had said and done since the last flower delivery, and then I told
her how confused I was, and then I stopped myself.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping on you
like this. It’s wrong to abuse a neighbor by taking advantage of their
profession.” I shook my head and grimaced, looking down at my plate. I seemed
to be off balance and handling everything wrong lately, and I was embarrassed.
“Don’t be sorry. I asked. And I asked for
gossip. That has to include the emotional component, or it doesn’t count as
gossip.”
“Still…” I met her eyes, but I still felt
embarrassed.
“See, this is why I don’t like to tell people
what I do for a living. Either they’re too nice to talk about anything real
with me, like you, or they dump all their problems on me, like you’re afraid
you have, or they’re completely nervous around me all the time, and keep saying
stuff like ‘I guess that means I’m neurotic, right? Heh heh’. And then I can’t take it anymore and I run off at the mouth, like this, and
make people uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
I sighed, and half laughed. “Don’t be sorry. I
already have dibs on that. I could make you feel better by asking your opinion,
if you like. Casual, one single woman to another opinion, not
psychological opinion.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do I care that he hasn’t kissed me other
than that one night and why don’t I care that Pete did kiss me?”
She smiled a little crookedly. “That’s actually
an easy one. There’s even a poem for it. Probably lots of them, come to think
of it, but there’s one my mother taught me. It had been made into a pop song
back in the day, and she liked it.”
“So don’t keep me in suspense…what is it?”
“It’s called ‘The Look’ by Sara Teasdale. You
should look it up next time you’re in a library. It’s about being haunted by a
kiss that didn’t happen.
We sat silent for a moment after that, and then
we both sighed at the same time. I laughed. “That pretty much sums it up,
doesn’t it? Wanting only what you can’t have?”
“Maybe valuing what’s not given
back to work next week and I’m getting stir-crazy and lonely in the apartment.”
The waitress came with our drinks. When she
left, I asked, “and this is good?”
“It is, yes. When I moved in, I was sunk in
situational depression and I didn’t mind not working or being alone in my
apartment. All I wanted was to stay in my sweats, eat ice cream out of the box,
and watch bad TV. I’m coming back to life and that’s good. It’s also a
confirmation that my depression was situational and not clinical, which is very good.”
“Would I regret it if I asked
the difference between situational and clinical depression?”
“Nah. It’s one of the few completely
clear concepts in my line of work. Situational depression means you’re
depressed because your situation is depressing, and you’d be crazy not to be depressed. Clinical depression
is the serious kind, when it’s something going on with you, not the objective
situation. It’s the one that’s hard to deal with.”
“I see.” I thought a moment. “Are you allowed
to use terms like ‘crazy’? I thought that was frowned on.”
“It is. I’m counting on you not to turn me in.
Also, I’m not big on the unimportant rules like that. Important stuff, like
don’t sleep with your patients, or don’t gossip about them, I’m a stickler for,
but what terms to use… meh .”
The pizza came. I love pepperoni pizza. I don’t
care that it’s not an authentic Italian dish, and I certainly don’t care that
what we get here is nothing like what they eat in New York. I just love it.
We thanked the waitress, served ourselves, and
each took a first bite. It was great.
Then the reprieve was over. Susan pointed at
me. “Your turn,” she said sternly. “Tell me all.”
And so I did. I told her virtually all that
Bert and I had said and done since the last flower delivery, and then I told
her how confused I was, and then I stopped myself.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping on you
like this. It’s wrong to abuse a neighbor by taking advantage of their
profession.” I shook my head and grimaced, looking down at my plate. I seemed
to be off balance and handling everything wrong lately, and I was embarrassed.
“Don’t be sorry. I asked. And I asked for
gossip. That has to include the emotional component, or it doesn’t count as
gossip.”
“Still…” I met her eyes, but I still felt
embarrassed.
“See, this is why I don’t like to tell people
what I do for a living. Either they’re too nice to talk about anything real
with me, like you, or they dump all their problems on me, like you’re afraid
you have, or they’re completely nervous around me all the time, and keep saying
stuff like ‘I guess that means I’m neurotic, right? Heh heh’. And then I can’t take it anymore and I run off at the mouth, like this, and
make people uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
I sighed, and half laughed. “Don’t be sorry. I
already have dibs on that. I could make you feel better by asking your opinion,
if you like. Casual, one single woman to another opinion, not
psychological opinion.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do I care that he hasn’t kissed me other
than that one night and why don’t I care that Pete did kiss me?”
She smiled a little crookedly. “That’s actually
an easy one. There’s even a poem for it. Probably lots of them, come to think
of it, but there’s one my mother taught me. It had been made into a pop song
back in the day, and she liked it.”
“So don’t keep me in suspense…what is it?”
“It’s called ‘The Look’ by Sara Teasdale. You
should look it up next time you’re in a library. It’s about being haunted by a
kiss that didn’t happen.
We sat silent for a moment after that, and then
we both sighed at the same time. I laughed. “That pretty much sums it up,
doesn’t it? Wanting only what you can’t have?”
“Maybe valuing what’s not given
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