Broken Hearts and a Small Glass of Lemonade

6

A Week After:

The kitchen table.  A red table cloth.  A bowl of cereal.  My left arm scooping fruit loops into my mouth.  A pad of paper.  A pen.  Scribbles.  The therapist sitting beside me.

"Try it again," she says.  I ignore her and scoop up another bite of fruit loops.

The breeze coming through the sliding doors.  The sun.  The clouds.  Everything that was there when it happened.

"Try it again," she says.  This time it sounds forceful.  I ignore her.  A sigh.  "Mandy..."

"I'm not a little kid.  I can do things by myself.  I don't need a therapist," the words don't come out as I planned, and I stumble a little bit.  I bite my lip and try again.  "Go away."

"Please," the therapist says.  I fling my left arm out and strike the half eaten bowl of fruit loops onto the ground.  The therapist jumps.  A fluttering of curtains.  A slammed door, and I'm safe in my room.  No one can touch me now.

A knock.  Another knock.

"Mandy..."

Silence.