Therapy

My therapist rarely holds our sessions outside. In the parking lot of the old Cinema East. As the wind brings on the rain. So this probably isn’t happening. Still, I’m unloading my troubles on her. Fear. Panic. Loneliness. Worry. Stories from my childhood near and far. All of it. I try to cry but can’t remember how. She keeps watching the clock. I say something about myself and she pulls a face. What? I ask. She has figured something out. I have to know. But she shakes her head. I ask again. She starts to speak but the old movie theater distracts us by collapsing and rising as a lousy restaurant that immediately shutters and starts to crumble. The rain comes down on us. Drops like tears across my face. I play along. She says, we’re out of time. The alarm goes off. I get up, go to the kitchen. I make coffee. The cat stares. Shakes her head. What? I ask for a third time wondering why I pay her all this money.