My curiosity has gone strangely missing. I do not look out the window. I do not eavesdrop. Devon says he’s going out for milk. I say okay. Louise says she’s taking the kids to dance class. I say fine. Martha says she’s staying over with Cecilia, I say that’s nice.  

My analyst says I must be depressed. I say I just don’t care. He says losing interest in your usual activities is a sign of depression. I say nothing. Devon, Louise, Martha, the kids, and Martha’s friend Cecilia are all I’ve talked about for the past six months. I have lost interest in them. I’ve lost interest in the analyst too. I’ll write him a letter: 

Dear Dr. XY: Thank you for your careful listening and respectful silences. They were well delivered. I am no longer in need of your services at this time. Please send my final balance to my P.O. box, which you have on file. Sincerely, etc. 

I may send him a postcard from Barbados, where I will be staying for the next six months or so. While I wait for my curiosity to come back. I confess to some mild interest in what Dr. XY will think, if he will wonder but what about Devon, Louise, Martha, the kids, and Martha’s friend Cecilia?  

There is a subtle, ticklish pleasure in leaving an analyst hanging. While I am diving in cool blue water, among the coral bones, the pearled eyes, reaching deeper into a story that has nothing to do with the story I told him. Will he pursue my phantom family, the thoughtless husband, the regular anxieties of home and children? Will he search for me, still interested in how it ends? What will he think when he finds I was never there, at all?  


1 Response to “Missing”

  1. 1 lollyloo September 12, 2007 at 11:27 am

    XY not XX, one notices …

    Very clever piece, intriguing. I love this Very Short Novel format.

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