Today I went to see my psychiatrist for the first time in ten months. She was twenty minutes late to see me but made up for it by vividly remembering things about me: the funny spelling of my name, my glasses, my fascination with Drano. I did not remember much about her except for the fact that she irked me, especially when she compared me to Janis Joplin. I even had a conversation about this matter with my friend Bryan yesterday.

Me: She told me that meeting me reminded her of seeing Janis Joplin in concert.
Bryan: That's not good.
Me: How did she die again?
Bryan: Of old old age.
Me: Thank you.

When I left my session I saw a woman standing in the psychiatrist's waiting room and had the most extreme flash of tenderness towards her spirit that I could ever feel for another human.

Many moons ago I became devastatingly fascinated with a homosexual in a class of mine. The whole class used to go out for drinks after our three hour discussions, and in the dark bar filled with plush couches I used to try to get this man's attention by asking him what his thoughts were on lesbians, Lacan and the revolution. His indifferent attitude toward me and ability to say the word "cock" without hesitation were definite turn ons. However, there was another man in the class with us who was not so indifferent toward me. This is the man who ruined the year of the woman in the waiting room.

As I was chasing after a man who had no interest in me or my sex, this other man was spending most of his time trying to get to know me. He even asked me what my high school was like. After a while his attempts to catch my attention finally paid off and we went on a date. He told me of a recent ex who was desperately trying to get him back, and the awkward position of a man who wants to fuck but his sense of duty gets in the way. Actually, he told me a lot about himself. Every now and then he would catch himself and say something along the lines of, "I am talking so much," then ask me a question. I would answer with one syllable and then beg for him to continue his story. I don't whore myself out to questionnaires.

And then his birthday rolls around. Imagine my embarrassment and horror when I realize that a boy I hardly know but am trying to get to know through the awkward experience of dating is having a birthday party. I show up, sit next to him, try to have fun. Toward the end of the night, when this guy is already pretty drunk, the waiting room woman shows up. I have never seen her before, and I hate her immediately. She speaks softly in a determined voice, never faltering to get her point across. She sits across from him, but eventually he moves to sit next to her so he can casually stroke her hand. At the end of the night I am seriously perturbed. I don't want to see those people again, I don't ever want to see anybody again. He sends me a text the next morning to apologize that I had to meet his ex in such an inconvenient way.

I haven't thought about any of them in a long time. I understand that we are all merely human, and that we're all just trying to get by. Malicious intent is rarely a motive, unless one has to do with someone truly vicious. I can't get the image of her standing in the waiting room out of my mind, though, and I hope that she's ok.