Patient #1

She clutches her purse like a crying newborn: against the chest with occasional pats to its leather back.

Her perm is failing before me, gray curls losing their life and prominence, becoming absurd abstract shapes brought together by cheap hairspray.

She talks about her job. Though I hear what she says the words have no meaning, a foreign tongue spoken to no one. I get the feeling this happens to her a lot.

I take notice of the large circular frames resting on her nose and study the thickness of the lenses. I know that if she were to lose these, to have a ‘Velma moment,’ she would be lost and I envision her wandering around some strangers' backyard, bumping into kiddie pools and swing sets, begging for someone to help her find her glasses.

Now I’m worried. I want to walk her home. I want to help her cross the street and buy her groceries.

She opens the door to leave. "Take care!" and she means it.

I say it back and it's one of the few times where I mean it too.