Many days have gone by from when I was younger woman in my second year of college with no cares in the world. Married now with two kids, I do what everyone expects of me, I go to therapy once a week. I don't want to tell my secrets but "good" society dictates that one cannot just keep going with all of their anxiety rolled up behind them like a tote bag.
I sit across from my therapist. He crosses his legs and uncrosses them for the fourth time this half hour. I don't really like him, but he is honest with me. He and I are on the verge of actually working through something. I have this theory that the reason why I can't love him is because I never got over loving her. By him I mean my husband, not my therapist. No one could love my therapist.
She was beautiful, to me anyways. Conventionally her hips were too wide and her belly was too thick. Her hair was probably the best thing about her and even that wasn't average. I guess that is why I liked her so much, because she wasn't average. She wasn't a lesbian either, but that didn't stop me.
"If she wasn't a lesbian, then what interest did she have in you," he says playing with his glasses peevishly.
"It was never about the interest that she had in me," I giggle, "it was about my interest in her."
"So you had an obsession," he says almost like it is normal.
I imagine he has had all sorts of perverts on his couch talking about their sex addictions and worse acting on them.
For me, my love of Katherine was normal, but to the outside world, it was an obsession. When I first saw her, I watched her. I watched her like a man watches a bird. No, I watched her like a man watches a woman. I stared at her just beyond the car and fondled my left breast in the process. She walked with skill on her high heels with her head placed firmly in the clouds. My nipple hardened at my touch and my breath escaped my lips. I'm in that moment again as I look past the man across from me and into her familiar eyes.
She moves further down the street and I contemplate following her. I wonder what her profession is. I wonder if she is married. I relay all these thoughts to the way my hand moves to touch myself. Heavy breath escapes my chalk covered throat.
"Did she know you were there?" Dr. asks me finally paying attention to my story.
"No," I say hushed, "she didn't know I had been there until I came."
"Do tell," he prompts.
I tell about the second time I saw her. She was at a bar and I had only been barely stalking her at the time. Her glass was half empty, so I filled it.
"Tula," I said extending my arm. She took it. She told me later that she would have taken anything I offered that night. She wanted to escape and she saw me as a way out. The sad part is that night I gave her all of me, and it had spilled over and through her.
We were at her place long before the sun would rise. She poured us both a scotch. I hated scotch but I loved to watch her long fingers pour for me. I waited until she was faced away before I came behind her wobbling on my own heels. My waist matched hers. My breasts pressed, imprinted into her back. She moans in a haze of scotch and disappearance.
"I've never been with a woman," she admits turning to face me, her hands holding mine.
