I am going to get kicked out of my writing circle. I can feel it. When I tell this to my therapist, Melinda, she asks, \u201cWhy do you think that?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I haven\u2019t written,\u201d I say. \u201cI haven\u2019t written anything all year. I was supposed to submit, like, five times already.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Melinda yawns and sinks into her armchair (which is much too large for a woman of 5\u20192\u201d), scribbles something into her miniature yellow notepad, and half-sneezes. Finally, she says: \u201cAnd writing\u2014it\u2019s important to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d like for it to be even more important to me,\u201d I say. \u201cThat\u2019s actually the goal.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve heard that some creatives are more prolific during times of distress,\u201d Melinda replies, like this is all over the news.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNot me,\u201d I say quickly, before she can tell me to channel my depression into some seminal work I will never in my life write\u2014depressed or not. I just wasn\u2019t destined for that kind of thing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNot you,\u201d Melinda echoes, like she is checking a box on a to-do list. For the first time, I notice that everything about Melinda is aggravatingly tiny. Even her handwriting is so microscopic that I can\u2019t make out a word of it from where I\u2019m sitting, just four feet away.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now I\u2019m supposed to submit again. In two days. And I have nothing,\u201d I say, in the same tone a petulant child might use to get their mother\u2019s attention. \u201cI just don\u2019t see this ending well.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Melinda looks at me over her glasses. The image is so apt I would like to pitch it to Shutterstock under the caption \u201cskeptical therapist.\u201d Then she says, \u201cPerhaps you fear being kicked out\u2014even more than you should\u2014because you were recently fired from a job.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I am slightly annoyed that Melinda always finds a way to bring up my being fired a month ago. It\u2019s something I try not to dwell on. \u201cEven more than I should?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cRight,\u201d Melinda says. \u201cMore than is normal or healthy.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cRight.\u201d I think I understand the sentiment. After all, fear is a self-preservation mechanism. \u201cThat could be true. I mean, my writing circle is basically just a group of my friends from undergrad. We studied creative writing together. We smoked pot together. We got our hearts broken together. I\u2019d be surprised if that\u2019s what it came down to\u2014me not being productive, that is.\u201d Melinda\u2019s expression is so vacant that all I can do is continue. \u201cBut, if I\u2019m being totally honest, I wouldn\u2019t put it past them. I\u2019m not sure how I feel about them anymore, as friends, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s talk more about that,\u201d Melinda says.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have much to say about it,\u201d I start, my eyes fixated on Melinda\u2019s baby-like feet wrapped in ballet flats, dangling just above the carpet, \u201cbut I get the feeling that they\u2019re not, well, good people. Fundamentally.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you think you\u2019re a good person, Risha?\u201d Melinda replies, a little too quickly. She sits up and plants her feet on the ground, as though reading my mind.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThey don\u2019t live up to your standard of what it means to be good, it seems. I am wondering if you think that you, personally, live up to your own standard of being good.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I\u2019d hope so,\u201d I say. \u201cI try to be good. I really try to.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSomething to think about,\u201d Melinda says, pursing her lips to the side in a way that can only be described as annoying.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u2014<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
While waiting for the train, I kick a flattened Sprite can, pretending that it\u2019s Melinda\u2019s head. I instantly feel a little cruel, so I gently scoot it with the toe of my boot to a nice-looking area on the subway platform. A little corner next to a square bench, drenched in a trapezoid of sunlight. There, there<\/em>, I want to say to the Sprite can. It\u2019s not your fault<\/em>.<\/p>\n When I accidentally miss my stop by two stations, I walk outside, find a large tree, and lean against it, with my backpack draped across the front of my body. Then I leisurely search through my things, as though I don\u2019t know what I am looking for. But I know exactly what I\u2019m looking for, and when I find the orange bottle tucked between two books\u2014dusted with some dried tobacco leaves\u2014I feel immediately relieved.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Soon I am walking through a park, thinking fondly of the little yellow pills sitting in my stomach, working their magic. The day looks brighter, more urgent and important. Before I know it, I have bought myself a popsicle, eaten it, walked three times around the park, given a homeless man some change, pet two dogs that belonged to strangers, and smiled at a busker. And now I am settling into a nook at a coffee shop, pouring a few of my stupid belongings\u2014a notebook, two pens, my laptop, my laptop charger, hand lotion, a pack of gum\u2014onto a small, uneven table stained with coffee rings. I open a blank document and begin haphazardly.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simran meets with Judy, her therapist, in the mornings. Every Monday, they find their separate ways to a cold, ugly building tucked into a nondescript corner of the Financial District. Simi usually begins by telling Judy about her dreams.<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLast night,\u201d Simi begins, \u201cI was eating the biggest T-bone steak in the universe. Not just the world, but the entire universe. The actual steak, though\u2014or, rather, the dreamed-up image of it\u2014wasn\u2019t remarkable in size at all. In fact, I\u2019m sure you could easily find a bigger T-bone steak within a two-mile radius of this office.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n This is all I manage before I am sucked into an internet rabbit hole of the \u201cugliest buildings in FiDi.\u201d Then \u201cT-bone steak size and weight.\u201d Too much time slips through my fingers, and now the baristas are cleaning the coffee machines so loudly you\u2019d think it was a performance. A third barista weaves in and out of the seating area, setting empty chairs upside down on empty tables. I want to throw my hands up in the air and yell, \u201cI get it, I get it!\u201d Instead, I down the rest of my tepid cappuccino and text my brief beginning to Jessica\u2014my best friend and the most successful member of our writing circle. We do this regularly, that is, send each other opening lines, pieces of dialogue, descriptions without context.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I pack my things quickly and thank the workers very politely, putting two dollars into the tip jar by the exit. Outside, the sun is setting, and the streets seem filled exclusively with couples\u2014holding hands, hugging, guiding each other like one of them is blind. I feel happy that I am single and sorry for myself at the same time.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When I get home, I text my ex-boyfriend a picture of an unopened bottle of wine I have sitting around. I\u2019ve heard this red is very bold.<\/em> When he doesn\u2019t reply for two hours, I open the bottle, pour myself a glass, and try to write some more.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Judy says it\u2019s impressive that Simi takes an interest in her subconscious, but perhaps they don\u2019t need to spend so much time talking about her dreams. \u201cYou are paying for this, you know,\u201d Judy says, like Simi is being swindled and doesn\u2019t even know it. \u201cI want you to get the most out of this process.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simi tells Judy that she is very kind for considering her finances, but that she is a vegetarian, so the dream actually does have potential for deeper, real-world significance. <\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Judy smiles and nods. She walks around her desk and opens one of its drawers, pulls out a composition notebook, hands it to Simi. \u201cHere,\u201d she says. \u201cA blank journal. For you to log your dreams in.\u201d <\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My phone buzzes and I am giddy, until I realize it\u2019s not my ex-boyfriend but, instead, Jessica: What\u2019s a Simi<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simi is my protagonist<\/em>, I write back, annoyed. Simi is short for Simran <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Maybe choose another name?? I was confused. <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simran is a standard Indian name.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Ohhh<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I wait for some time, but when it\u2019s clear that ohhh<\/em> is the extent of Jessica\u2019s response, I offer: Do you think this story could be interesting tho<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Definitely. I love cultural fiction<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n This is not going to be about culture<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n No? But she\u2019s Indian, isn\u2019t she????<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yes, she is. But this story is going to be about a patient-therapist relationship<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Why does she need to be Indian then??<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Because I\u2019m Indian.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n You\u2019re writing about yourself? <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n No. But I want to write about people like me. <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Got it. I just think that people will wonder what the significance is \u2013 of the protagonist being an immigrant\u2026. They\u2019ll want you to explore this, you know?? If you don\u2019t, they won\u2019t get the point of setting it up that way\u2026. That\u2019s why I suggested another name. <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I pour another glass of wine and recognize that I feel equally disappointed in Jessica and in myself. In Jessica, because she is stupid and rude. In myself, because I surround myself with people who are stupid and rude.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I crane my head, so it\u2019s hanging over the short backrest of the couch; I can smell its thick, hand-me-down fabric. I stare at the ceiling with intention, an expression on my face like the truth is clear to me now\u2014even though my mind is blank.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When I hear my neck crack, I sit up again and take a sip of my very bold wine. I decide that while Jessica may be published in several well-respected online magazines, she is not the kind of writer I\u2019d ever want to be. I\u2019d never want to write a story in which the family dog is a golden retriever and the mother is protective of her wedding china and all the drama unfolds on a porch at night when the stars are out. I didn\u2019t live that life or watch those movies. Not more than I had to, at least.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Simi takes the notebook into her hands dramatically, like the scene is playing out in slow motion. \u201cThank you,\u201d she says, doing a little bow without even realizing it. Simi feels so overwhelmed with gratitude, in fact, that she begins to talk too much: \u201cI think the reason I\u2019m so obsessed with dreams is that, well, because I wonder if they contain clues about my previous lives.<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhen I was maybe ten years old, I accidentally read a book about past-life regression therapy\u2014and it changed me forever. I actually picked it up at a bookstore in India, called Crosswords. We visited India every summer growing up. My dad made us\u2014so we wouldn\u2019t become \u2018too American.\u2019 Anyway, we did become too American, and, anyway, the book cover was a picture of a chair with a spinning top on it. There was a line on it, too, that said, simply: \u2018Children Who Have Lived Before.\u2019 In my Velcro shoes, I felt like I had just unearthed something serious and important. Like I was the only kid who was going to know the real truth.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The next morning, I am eating oatmeal from a plastic cup and drinking Gatorade when I decide that I want to stand in line today. This is something I crave from time to time. After all, when you are standing in line for something, it\u2019s like the world is standing still with you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I decide I will try to sell some clothes at a Buffalo Exchange, but when I arrive at the nearest store, I see that there is no line for anything.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHi, excuse me?\u201d I say to a pink-haired girl tidying up a sunglass display rack.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d she says conclusively.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m here to sell\u2014and, uh, donate\u2014some clothes?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIn the corner,\u201d she says, like there aren\u2019t four of them.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d I say, and wheel my small, squeaky suitcase to the nearest corner, the right, where there are too many old jeans. I turn to my left and I see a small counter at the back of the store: two buyers, one seller. I approach the available buyer, a little disappointed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHey, I\u2019m here to sell,\u201d I announce.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOver here,\u201d he says, even though I\u2019m basically in front of him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As I place clothing from my two tote bags onto the counter, we glance at one another expectantly.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGood day so far?\u201d he asks, sounding embarrassed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGreat, actually,\u201d I say enthusiastically, trying to pick up the slack. \u201cI\u2019m recently unemployed, which has been surprisingly refreshing.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cA little time off never hurt anybody,\u201d he sings happily. \u201cI\u2019m Elijah.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cRisha,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSuch a pretty name.\u201d Elijah smiles. \u201cSo, how are you passing the time?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve been trying to focus on my art, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s so fantastic. What do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m a writer,\u201d I say. \u201cI mean, I\u2019d like to be a writer. I try to write.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have to tell me,\u201d he reassures. \u201cI\u2019m a painter, in the same way that you\u2019re a writer.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI wish I could paint,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cMe too,\u201d he says. Then we laugh together, until it is clear both of us feel sorry for ourselves. For the remainder of our time together, I browse my phone while Elijah silently sorts my clothes into two piles. It\u2019s clear almost instantly that the shrinking pile is the one I will be paid for.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThirty percent in cash or 50% in trade?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll take the 30%.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I am only $18.46 richer for seven minutes, because I remember spotting an animal shelter across the street. I go to a few bodegas until I find the brand of cat food my cat used to like. Then I donate it to the animal shelter and feel like maybe every kind act is inspired by a kind encounter.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI know a little bit about past-life regression therapy,\u201d Judy says. \u201cIt\u2019s fascinating.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt is!\u201d Simi beams. \u201cYou would like this book, then. I could lend you my copy, if you don\u2019t mind returning it.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s okay,\u201d Judy says, in the polite way that she does. <\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAre you sure? It\u2019s basically a collection of true accounts of children who remember bits and pieces of their past lives; children who have curious amounts of very real baggage, too. For example, there\u2019s this one story about a young girl who couldn\u2019t stand the sight or smell of fires\u2014fires of any kind. In fact, one time she was at a birthday party and started crying uncontrollably when the cake was brought out with lit candles stuck into it.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The bookstore is the place I feel most at home. It\u2019s the one place I can not just handle crowds, but in fact prefer them. Most people are browsing alone; even friends and couples navigate the aisles like strangers. There is sanctity in how we sidle past each other, silently, apologetically. Gazes must be averted at all costs. Everyone is gentle in a bookstore. Paperbacks must be cradled. We open hardcovers slowly, really hearing the way spines crack, and there is a sincere eagerness to listen.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cRisha?\u201d a voice booms somewhere down the historical fiction aisle.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I turn and it is who I think it is, unfortunately. Jessica. \u201cJessica,\u201d I whisper back, hoping she will follow suit and lower her voice.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jessica struts past a few visibly disturbed patrons until she is next to me, clasping my upper arm with both of her hands, like a koala. She does this often. \u201cI was literally just about to text you. I didn\u2019t mean to upset you about the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh, I wasn\u2019t upset!\u201d I say, like I\u2019m just realizing I\u2019ve left the milk out.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou never replied though.\u201d Jessica purses her lips to the side in a way that reminds me of Melinda.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s been a busy week.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t you just quit your job?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cUh-huh,\u201d I say, suddenly remembering that this is the story I\u2019ve told my friends instead of the truth. The truth being that I was fired so loudly\u2014over a small mistake that was my fault, but not so colossal to warrant a public firing\u2014that my former coworkers all chipped in for consolatory flowers to be sent to my apartment. \u201cBut I\u2019ve got tons of errands to run now that I have the time.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jessica frowns at me like I can do better than that fib. \u201cWell, if you want me to read over what you have tonight, you know, before you submit tomorrow, I\u2019d love to. I\u2019m staying in for the foreseeable future because I have this grant deadline to make.\u201d She groans performatively. \u201cYou know what that\u2019s like.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t, actually,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ve never applied for a grant.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you talking about? You\u2019ve totally applied for a grant before.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I shrug. \u201cI must be forgetting then.\u201d For a moment, I consider telling Jessica the more important truth: that I only have a handful of bad paragraphs so far, that I won\u2019t be submitting anytime soon. But then she says, \u201cAnyways, I gotta run, babe. I\u2019ve got someone upstairs waiting for me. A potential agent! Isn\u2019t that exciting?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSo exciting,\u201d I say, wanting to strangle her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAnyway, this pyrophobic girl was younger than I was at the time\u2014six or seven, I think\u2014and she had no history of trauma associated with fires. She also harbored this intense hatred towards both of her parents that seemed completely unfounded. Her parents were wonderful people, apparently\u2014overtly loving and everything. But their daughter would never return an \u2018I love you\u2019 or express any sort of affection. Soon, her mother became very worried and decided to take her to a past-life regression therapist.<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou might know this already, but past-life regression therapy involves hypnosis. So, they hypnotized the young girl to help her return to her previous life and, when she did, they learned that she had died from a house fire in the middle of the night. The last thing she remembered from her past life, too, was her body floating above the house, her family huddled on the lawn next to several firetrucks. She thought that her family hadn\u2019t tried to save her and carried this resentment with her onto her next life.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWho is it?\u201d I say into the intercom.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGuess who,\u201d the voice says back.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWho?\u201d It sounds like Vishal, my ex-boyfriend.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI said guess.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When Vishal is in my apartment, he is disappointed to learn that I\u2019ve already opened the bottle of wine. \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d he says. \u201cYou invite me over for a half-bottle of wine?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t invite you,\u201d I say. \u201cAnd even if I did, you\u2019re twenty-four hours late.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cChill,\u201d he says, searching my kitchen cabinets like he still lives here. He pours most of the bottle into the nicest wine glass I own and takes it into my room. I follow him in to find him sitting on my desk chair, looking into my laptop screen. \u201cJudy and Simi! What do we have here?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t do that.\u201d I slam my laptop closed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWorking on another story?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI am, yes.\u201d I snatch his glass as delicately as I can\u2014seeing as the thing is filled to its brim\u2014and take two big gulps before handing it back. \u201cThis one\u2019s about a patient-therapist relationship.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh yeah? Are you Simi? Is Judy your therapist?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I murmur. \u201cMy therapist is kind of a drag, actually. I might stop seeing her when my insurance runs out, which is,\u201d I pretend to look at an imaginary wristwatch, \u201cprobably four sessions from now.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with this one?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s just kind of problematic,\u201d I say. \u201cShe says things that seem really inappropriate and rude.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLike what?\u201d Vish asks, kicking off his shoes and lying across the foot of my bed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I shrug. \u201cIt\u2019s hard to explain.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh, Rish.\u201d Vish laughs. \u201cYou always have beef with someone in your life. No one is good enough for you. Isn\u2019t that how it goes?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I roll my eyes and go into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine, since Vish didn\u2019t think to do that. As I drain the last of the bottle\u2014maybe four or five sips\u2014into a plastic cup, I realize that my blood is boiling. The thought of Vishal draped across my bed like that\u2014smug\u2014makes me purely indignant.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that supposed to mean?\u201d I say from my doorway.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He sits up on my bed. \u201cWell, don\u2019t get all mad.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean I always have beef with someone?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou really wanna know?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYeah. I really want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re always going on about how much everyone sucks. When we were dating, it was me. When you had a job, it was your boss. Some days it\u2019s Jessica. Other days it\u2019s your therapist. It\u2019s always someone. Think about that,\u201d he says, lifting his glass like we are going to toast or something.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou hated Jessica,\u201d I retort, mostly because I can\u2019t deny any of this.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI did hate Jessica,\u201d he declares, \u201cbut I also don\u2019t think I\u2019m better than Jessica. I accept Jessica. I accept myself. I think we are both uniquely subpar people. I think the world is full of uniquely subpar people. And I think it\u2019s our job to stick together\u2014as shitty, subpar human beings. It\u2019s like a karmic law or something.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLeave.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI just don\u2019t see the point in writing everyone off the way you do.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLeave,\u201d I repeat.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Shaking his head, Vish slips on his shoes and rises to his feet. He downs the rest of his wine in under three seconds (a feat I can\u2019t help but recognize as astonishing) and then skips past me, out of my room to the front door.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I don\u2019t turn to face him, but I wait for him to say something else, anything else, since he\u2019s exactly the kind of person that needs to have the final word. But there is only silence followed by the door slamming shut.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Judy looks at Simi with equal parts concern and compassion. \u201cSimran, I think your spiritual passion is beautiful. But we should really focus on you.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simi sighs. \u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d she says. \u201cI guess that was just my long-winded way of saying thank you. Thank you for being so kind and patient with me. Thank you for having hope in me.\u201d Then, suddenly, as though finally recognizing the meaning of her tangent: \u201cI guess my point was that I can\u2019t help but perceive you as maternal, and not just because you\u2019re my therapist. It feels like I have known you, as a mother, specifically, in a past life.\u201d <\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simran regrets the words as soon as they come out of her mouth, as soon as she sees Judy\u2019s face fall into a shadow of the future of their relationship\u2014or, rather, the lack of it. After all, Judy is a good therapist. She is of sound mind. She cannot, in good conscience, continue to see a patient who regards her as her own mother.<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n I blink into my screen and realize that, once again, I have dug my own grave. Once again, the only relationship I have created I have also destroyed, within the brief span of a page. Once again, I have written off my one and only protagonist.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I think about Vishal\u2019s words: \u201cI just don\u2019t see the point in writing everyone off the way you do.\u201d I think about how he was too shy to use my bathroom when we first started dating, because he didn\u2019t want me to hear him pee. I think about how comfortable he feels now\u2014so comfortable that he\u2019ll show up unannounced, drink all of my wine, and tell me off on my own turf.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I think about Jessica and her success. I think about why it bothers me. I think about the way she holds my arm when she greets me, or when we are walking down the street together. I think about the notes she sends me on my writing, always promptly: color-coded, marked-up with just as much praise as constructive criticism.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I think about Simran, and I think about myself. I think about missing the point of things entirely. I think about baggage. I think about baggage so old it might as well belong to a previous lifetime.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In my dream, I am eating the biggest T-bone steak in the universe, in Melinda\u2019s office. I don\u2019t have a plate or utensils, so I am carrying the steak around in my purse, ripping off pieces of it and feeding myself with my fingers, like it is a soft baguette.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Melinda asks why I am eating a T-bone steak during our therapy session. I say, simply: \u201cBecause I am starving.\u201d<\/p>\n Without judgement, Melissa nods. From the bottom of her chair, she pulls out a colorful plate, a fork, and a steak knife\u2014in that order. Then, she struggles to move her heavy desk in front of me, so I have a surface to eat on.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIs this okay?\u201d Melinda asks, pursing her lips to the side.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Our writing circle meets once a week, in an art studio for preschoolers (after hours, of course).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The seven of us huddle over two short tables cobbled together\u2014both pieces of furniture stained with so much paint we can\u2019t help but remember how everything is a canvas when you\u2019re four years old. We sit on even shorter stools, with our strained backs hunched over each other\u2019s manuscripts. We have all traveled from different corners of the city to really be here, to peer in each other\u2019s minds for two full hours.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n At the end of our meeting, while Mark is passing out the twelfth chapter of his mystery novel-in-progress, I announce to everyone: \u201cI don\u2019t have pages again and I was fired from my job a month ago.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Everyone stops to stare at me, except Mark, who seems to be double-checking that his pages are stapled in the correct order. Jessica knits her eyebrows so plainly. Jason gives me a look like he\u2019d rather be anywhere but here. Jenna crosses her arms like she is a disappointed teacher. Neil widens his eyes like he\u2019s never heard a confession so sad before. Sam bares her teeth, like: yikes<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou didn\u2019t quit?\u201d Jessica says.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo, I got fired. Pretty publicly actually. It was a small mistake that had some medium consequences.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Suddenly, Mark cackles loudly, breaking the tension he is oblivious to. \u201cThat\u2019s so funny, dude. You should write about that for next time.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Silently, Jessica walks to my side and squeezes my arm tightly. \u201cDo you mind waiting another month to share though?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNot at all,\u201d I hear myself whisper.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Then, like I am a ball being tossed around, the group takes turns hugging me, consoling me. I allow myself to move from person to person, to feel relieved in a way that seems too profound for the occasion. Each of them expresses to me\u2014in their uniquely subpar ways\u2014how it\u2019s going to be okay. That is, everyone except for Mark, who is packing up his things, satisfied that pages one to twenty are in perfect, consecutive order.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I am going to get kicked out of my writing circle. I can feel it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":6596,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[1831,1832],"class_list":["post-6591","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-the-writing-circle","tag-twinkle-bharwaney"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n