Not this time
A woman in front of me clears her throat, demanding my attention, but I keep looking through her, imagining all the sick, sexy things I'd let Jake do to me.
"Excuse me?"
She asks. Her tone is full of attitude.
Her aged, wrinkled face comes into focus and I'm looking at her cherry-colored lips that are pursed in an annoying line. Her white hair sits on top of her head, like a poodle. Yes, she reminds me of a poodle. I poise my fingers over the worn keyboard.
"Name please?"
"Miriam Miller."
I type as she speaks.
I mark her name as attended and tell her to take a seat. With a frustrated exhale, she turns away from me. Her dress is cherry red, as are her lips and it is tight, forcing her giant fake breasts as high as possible. I wonder if she comes here to discuss her inability to let go of her youth. I smile to myself. Trying to read people without even getting to know them is a habit of mine. I furrow my brow. I couldn't get a full read on Jake. It was difficult and that bothers me. With the old lady, on the other hand, I think I have a pretty good idea of what she's like. I look over my desk at the woman and, judging by the way she sits cross-legged tightly as she unconsciously taps her beautiful manicured fingers on her equally beautiful diamond watch, it tells me she's impatient. That's not too surprising considering everyone is busy these days. The pair of fake tits, rock hard and lifeless, protruding from her dress, brings me back to my inability to let go of the youthful point. I look down at her hands. There's a tan line on her ring finger and I'm going to assume she's a recent widow from her last of five husbands. I look at my computer screen and click on her file. Close enough. She's had three name changes in the last two years. I click on "John Miller," the name linked to her account. A big red "DECEASED" watermark goes across his file. Sometimes, I'm just too good at what I do. There's a tan line on her ring finger and I'm going to assume she's a recent widow from her last of five husbands.
"Aren't you violating some sort of doctor-bar-patient confidentiality laws?"
I jump up and turn off the monitor as Olivia slides onto my desk.
"Jesus."
I breathe.
"You scared the hell out of me."
Olivia laughs and nudges me, eliciting some angry grimaces from the patients in the waiting room. I press my finger to my lips.
"Shoosh, this is my job, remember."
"What are you doing here?"
She moves her soft blonde curls to fall over her shoulder and lean closer to me. The cigarette smell on her breath makes me nauseous. Lightly, I push her back.
"Your breath smells like cigarettes. It's disgusting."
"Oops."
She pulls a stick of gum from a hidden pocket in her purse.
"Sorry."
She pops the gum in her mouth, crumples the wrapper and aims for the trash can, missing terribly.
"What are you doing here?"
I ask again as she applies minimal lip gloss to her plump lips.
"I thought I'd come by and check on you. You didn't answer any of my text messages."
She takes off her beige coat and tucks it underneath.
"I was worried. I half expected to find you dead somewhere."
"Right."
After literally running into Jake at the gym, I completely forgot to text Olivia back.
"I turned my phone off last night and then this morning I caught up at Dad's gym."
She rolls her eyes.
"Boring. Anyway, did you really break up with David?"
I nod my head.
"Yes."
"And there's no going back with him?"
"No. Not this time."
Ignoring the fact that we're in a quiet place, Olivia squeals like a pre-teen who just won tickets to a Justin Bieber concert backstage. From her purse she pulls a baby-sized mini box of wine coolers. Patients cringe at her high-pitched voice, but some enjoyed having a skinny blonde dancing to no music and sipping wine in one go. The door nearest my reception desk opens abruptly and Jason Peterson, my boss, rushes out of his office. His gray suit clings to his fantastically tight body. He's in good shape for someone who's as old as he is, early forties, maybe. He also has a handsome face. His hair is a golden color, like baked bread, and his eyes are a striking blue. He moved his business to Los Angeles, California from Seattle four years ago due to a difficult divorce. Next to me Olivia stops dancing and I drop my eyes to my blank screen,
"What's going on here, Sandra?"
She asks sternly.
Jason is an amazing boss. He lets me get away with a lot of things that most bosses would fire their employees for and, from time to time, I abuse them.
"I have no idea who this girl is."
I say.
"She must be a patient here."
I pick up the phone.
"Hello, Guyers and Peterson Psychology, this is Sandra."
Jason exhales, placing his hands firmly on his hips. His blue eyes narrow at me and the disappointment is clear on his face.
"Sandra, I'm not an idiot. I know the phone didn't ring and Olivia you can't drink or smoke in here, how many times do I have to tell you?"
I press my lips together tightly to keep from laughing. It didn't help anyone. The laughter I'm holding back ends up coming out of my nose. Damn it, Olivia. She knows exactly how to turn me back into my old high school self.
"Come on girls. How many warnings do I have to give you?"
"Sorry, Jason."
I apologize, wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes and smudging my mascara slightly.