The waiting room is small, functional yet intimate, a quiet and respectful place with a handful of seats set around three of the walls.
You take a seat and glance at the clock on the wall, there's 5 minutes until your appointment.
With a deliberate, slow, deep breath you check in on your heart, feeling her familiar race and willing her to be calm, she's safe here, the anxiety of being on time is behind us now.
With a slow exhale you sense her pulse soothing, slowing with your assurance, yet remaining defiant, the anxiety of getting here giving way to the apprehension of arriving, and waiting.
Glancing around the room you remind yourself of the familiar details. In one corner there's a small alcove with a complimentary water cooler and coffee urn, set up. In the other two corners, a small coffee table for each, a scattering of magazines, a small box of tissues.
You catch yourself instinctively thinking to reach for one of the magazines and flip through its glossy pages to pass the time. But you stop yourself, recognizing your own nervous energy and reminding yourself it's only a few minutes. You close your eyes and again will your heart to be still.
~ Part II ~
The road is long, hard and dry. Her twin yellow lines, split down her centre, stretching to infinity.
The land is flat, wide, and uncluttered. There's no sign of civilization out here, no sign of a home or a cabin, any clues to finding even the smallest of towns, remain hidden beyond the horizon, any memory of a city is long gone.
My motorcycle thrums between my thighs. I squeeze her frame beneath the scoop of her wide black fuel tank and push my weight down through my legs, pressing my boots down into her pegs, flexing and relaxing my muscled buttocks, keeping the blood flowing, essential to fighting the fatigue of all day riding.
I glance down at the dials, rev counter and speed, a steady 80 miles per hour at 4,000 Revolutions Per Minute. This bike is bullet proof, the arid heat doesn't faze her.
The odometer reads 75 miles. She's good for 150 before her fuel light will come on. I look back up, staring down both barrels of this long black road, stretching out into the nothing of Nebraska.
It's been four hours on the road, an hour since the last fuel stop, and at this pace I have to stop every couple of hours, less if a gas station presents itself sooner, because I'm not willing to risk running dry in the distance between the last stop and the next.
~ Part III ~
You hear the latch, the turning handle, the base of the waiting room door brushing the carpet as it swings open. Your heart skips, it could be for me?
Inside, your lifted spirits sink a little as a stranger walks in, nervously glancing at you, too polite to ignore you, but too self conscious to be more gracious. A social etiquette dilemma, ever so British, as two strangers now sit in a shared silence, waiting to see their respective therapists.
The waiting room door swings open again, you both glance in the direction of the doorway, you're more cautious, and then relieved, seeing the familiar smile of your therapist.
"Ready?" he asks with a warmth and confidence that quickly begins to put you at ease.
You gather your coat and bag and head out through the open door, turning immediately right and toward the open door of your therapist's office.
His door open, revealing the interior, allowing you to easily recall the setting, welcome and familiar, reassuringly unchanged since your last visit.
The soft couch, finished in a dark tobacco leather, cracked and worn, and so comfortable. And across the open room, a single deep armchair, where your therapist waits to sit.
You set down your bag and coat, before laying back on the couch, looking up into the wide white ceiling and losing yourself in the void, for just a millisecond.
Glancing over to the door, you watch your therapist gently closing the door, his name etched in bold, black letters, of Times New Roman, set into the brass plaque: Dr. Guy Fox.
"So, how have you been?" He asks, kindly, still smiling, settling himself back into his armchair and allowing you all the time you need to centre yourself.
"Oh, it's been mental as ever."
"How so?"
"Well, that job I took turned into a nightmare, the management were awful, under trained, incapable of support and with ridiculous expectations that became demands, literally shouting and being abusive. Unbelievable."
"Are you there now?"
"No. No, I had to say no, my health is worth more."
"I'd have to agree."
He leaves you space, not expecting you to say more, but he also leaves the door open, so to speak, should you want to continue.
"I just got back from Dubai" you offer, shifting the conversation from how have you been, to what have you been up to?
You notice him making a note, his open A4 pad resting on the upper thigh and knee of his crossed legs.
You imagine him writing Dubai, and suspect him of wondering if he should charge you more for these sessions. But in truth he's written, denial, his shorthand for you choosing to change the subject.
"How was that?" he asks, his warmth and sincerity undented.
And in a slightly anxious panic you fluster to convey how it was sort of paid for, or mostly free, because you have a friend in the airline business, Virgin in fact, and well, when you get these crazy opportunities you can hardly pass them up, can you? After all you only live once.
"Sure" he soothes, nodding and listening while glancing back through his notes to remind himself of observations made from earlier sessions. "So, how does it feel to be back home?"
Home. The word catches in your mind, and sticks. Home. What is that? Where is that? England? Not now the girls are grown and moved on. Europe? It was once, but what's left? America?
He watches you, his kind hazel eyes reading you, but he doesn't speak, he only smiles and waits gently for you to settle and relax.
~ Part IV ~
My eyes squint, stretching to the limit of the horizon. Reading nothing. I lift my focus a few inches above the horizontal line of flat land, reading the cloudscape that smatters the enormous canvas of blue that fills the vast dome of my perception.
I'm looking for clues, signs of a storm or some other hazard. Nothing. I take a moment to look deeply into the small circular rearview mirrors, each extending either side of my handle bars.
I see the road reaching relentlessly back behind me. Her long black surface reminding me of the sheer finish of your stockings.
Catching the memory of you, my eyes return to the road ahead, my mind drifting, set free, I begin to play with my memory, rummaging through an archive of erotica and recalling moments of our deep connection.
Looking down, the road whipping away under my front wheel, my hands relaxing their grip beneath the thin armor of their leather gloves, the outdoor air feels clean.
Reminding me of your hair, flowing, recalling the squeeze of your thighs around my hips, riding with me into the who knows where.
