“We had an argument! Look, I’m certain now that he is completely insane,” she said, furious, while passing through the door.
I took my glasses off my face. I rubbed my eyes. I was still trying to understand the words she was quickly saying.
“Can you please… Wait… Are you talking about your boyfriend?!” I couldn’t possibly understand. Maybe it was the fact she was absolutely happy yesterday with the flowers and chocolates he gave to her or maybe it was the insomnia last night that was messing up my synapses.
Anyway, I was sitting on the bed and trying to focus my eyes on her. “Explain me please…”
“There is nothing to be explained! I can’t understand him! He is happy then sad, happy and sad, up and down…” Her words just got mixed up with tears.
“What did you expected from this relationship anyway? You met him in the waiting room of your psychiatrist, whom he stopped seeing because the psychiatrist could treat both of you guys due to ethical issues…”, I said.
I realize I suck on comforting speeches.
“Yeah, how wonderful was he when he decided to leave my psychiatrist so that I could continue to see my wonderful doctor,” she said with a sad smile.
The only thing my mind could possibly come up with after hearing that was, what the f*ck? I tried to smile and say something smart, possibly cliche, but comforting.
“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, any relationship can support just one crazy person at a time,” I said.
“He wasn’t crazy…” she babbled.
Yes, you both are, I thought.
“I think I’m the one who is the problem of this relationship. I should be more supportive. Yeah, I’m going to call him…” she said regained her straight.
“I’m pretty sure his medicines were supportive until he throw them down the toilet…” I said.
“Now, you’re not being fair! He said that those medicines had been changed by the police, he said those were poisoned capsules,” she said.
“Okay”,I said. What else could I say after that?
“I’m going to call him and we will be fine!” she said leaving the room, really sure of her decision.
I laid in the bed, still questioning myself If a psychiatrist waiting room is the best place to make new friends or find a future husband. I mean, these two were obviously made from one another, but, on the other hand, they are so…
* * *
What can I say? My imagination goes crazy when I find myself on the waiting room of my psychologist. I wonder if it is the same old peculiar Jewish neurosis.