“Well, the band is amazing.”
“They have a great sound.”
“Absolutely they do,” she said, and tried to do it firmly.
But now the singer was moaning on about slowly drifting to someone, and oh god, it was just getting worse and worse. Now, he actively looked uncomfortable. He was actually shifting in his seat. His hands kept flexing on the wheel.
Even though he was supposed to be impervious.
He was impervious. Where was his imperviousness?
You fucked it to hell, her mind said.
And his next question backed that up.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“We can talk about anything you like.”
“I was thinking maybe something about you.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Anything at all.”
She immediately tried to ransack her brain for possible options. But the problem was: everything seemed bad. She couldn’t talk about the attack. Not talking about it was the thing she liked best about their relationship. And her family weren’t a good topic either, because they were all just so into sharing everything. It would have been like describing an alien species to him.So, my mom calls me twice a day to make sure I’m working through my feelings, she imagined saying. Followed by even worse:
But I never talk about you. I can’t talk about you.
You’re my secret weapon in the fight against despair.
You’re my dirty habit that I just don’t want to kick.
Emphasis on the dirty,her mind added.
And she truly hated it for that.
It only made it harder to come up with something good.
In fact, in the end he had to do it for her.
“How about something to do with college—what you’re studying, why you’re studying it. That kind of thing,” he asked.
And only then was it easier.
“I majored in psychology—mainly because I wanted to be a shrink.”
“Wantedto be one? Or still want to be one?”
“Lately, I’ve been having some doubts.”
“Well, you’re young. You don’t have to decide now.”
“Yeah, I don’t think youth is really the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“I just stopped thinking that talking was the answer to problems.”
