You Shall Know My Velocity

The therapist was silent. Eyes noticeably puckered. Hand meaningfully covering mouth. A mildly convincing fortuneteller.

The hum of the Dell was punctuated by brief platitudes.

"You see, memories are like pearls. You know about pearls right?"

Pause. He stared deeply at his black loafers. His lingering obsession with his body made me painfully aware of my own. Arm acutely angled into a fist.

He rubbed the edge of the bookshelf - tracing it, perhaps, for signs.

"The oyster keeps returning to the source of irritation. "

Deep Breath. Hands clasped together in his lap. Not once did he look me in the eye.

My unreasonable sense of social obligation kept my expression neutral. I even scheduled another appointment I intended to cancel as soon as I left the office.

Most of my acquaintances found the story of the attack oddly hilarious; a few offered rationales. Durkheim. Freud. All possibilities. All explanations. All to fill the vacuum. I will never know.

I finally reported the incident to the police.

And I buried the shame deep within. I burned it and danced around it.