Thursdays, 2 p.m., A Room in a Tall Building
/Max Kruger-Dull
2 p.m. on Thursdays. My therapist sees me at my best. With a dog on my lap. Genteel emotion. My arms close to my body. My head right there with my body. 2 p.m. is for sleepiness. For cracking knuckles. For nodding off in a La-Z-Boy. For the dentist. Movies are more affecting at midnight. My therapist yawns at 2 p.m., and 2:05, and 2:13. His nose hairs need trimming. I want to water his aloe vera. The world is innocuous at 2 p.m., and 2:13, and 2:50. I talk mosquito bites and fashion week. Haircuts. Museums. “Everything will be fine” at 2 p.m. I wasn’t mugged at 2 p.m. Fist to my temple. Knife near my throat. Knife near my Achilles tendon. They shoved my face in a pothole. 2 p.m. is made of white noise. Salads. At 2 p.m. I am full of lunch and dazed. My therapist sees the serene in me. I used to bully kids at 2 p.m. But that was high school. After the last bell. Full of lunch and pissed. Energy, energy. I wanted to laugh at 2 p.m. Wedgies and swiped calculators. Trips to the principal. Fancy talk. Me: the “I’M STEALING YOUR HOMEWORK” kid. 2 p.m. is when time acts rationally. Seconds are equal at 2 p.m. But night is always slow or fast. Morning is always fast, fast. My therapist says to leave my dog at home. 2 a.m. and 3 a.m., my dog sees my worst. I cover my eyes. The world is scary. I am hungry, on edge. Nosebleeds are for 2 a.m. I talk tears and exploitation with whoever’s up. Whoever’s up is usually Dad. Dad fucks with my head at 2 a.m. I give to charity at 2 a.m. More than I can afford. Should I quit therapy? A hiatus? Searching, searching at 2 a.m. My house feels smaller at 2 a.m. The shower: a torture device. Sitcoms. Jeopardy! reruns. My veins look too full. I call for the vampires. Confused at 2 a.m. I want to exist outside of time. I ask my therapist for a midnight appointment. I’ll pay extra. I say, “Maybe my tears will glow in the dark.” 10 p.m.? 8 p.m.? Phone call after dinner? His schedule is fixed. I’ve never missed a session. 2 p.m. on Thursdays. My therapist so confident in his role. A cough is all I can muster.
Author’s Note: When writing this piece, I focused on creating a paragraph that had a sense of speed. I also enjoyed attempting to subvert a time of day that's typically considered mundane: 2 p.m.
Max Kruger-Dull holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in The MacGuffin, Litro Magazine, Hunger Mountain Review, the tiny journal, The Broadkill Review, and others. He lives in New York with his boyfriend and two dogs.
