After he deposits her at the therapist’s office, he goes down to the bookstore cafe and settles in for an afternoon coffee. Before very long, the therapist shows up and she’s with him. They look like a couple, out for an afternoon on the town. They don’t see him right away, and it seems to him that he’s watching two people he’s never met before. He wants to go over and tell them what a lovely couple they make, how he wishes he had a girlfriend as lovely as she, but he tries to keep his mind on his coffee instead, even though it’s so suddenly bitter. A few minutes later, she spots him at his corner table and waves, but doesn’t smile.

Ron. Lavalette lives in Vermont. His work has appeared extensively in journals, reviews, and anthologies, ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and The Anthology of New England Poets, through the World Haiku Review and Your One Phone Call. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO.

This entry was posted in Fiction and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Couched

  1. Pingback: On The Couch at Eunoia Review | Scrambled, Not Fried

  2. judyt54 says:

    beautifully delineated. And ouch.

  3. Pingback: Couched | Scrambled, Not Fried

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