The man in the seat wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Timothy?” the woman asked.
His blue eyes were directed at the ground, allowing for the women to see only his wavy blonde hair. The room was at the end of the hall, dimly lit, and muggy airwaves heated the room like a microwave. Fields of wheat stretched for miles outside, great gold plains sprouting whole wheat waiting to be harvested.
“Timothy, can you hear me? Do you know why you’re here?” Her paper, neatly placed in her lap labeled ‘Timothy Anderson’, has remained blank. Splotches of sweat stain the page.
Staring at the carpet floor, Timothy swore he saw home. Yellow and Black lines ran directly parallel to each other. El Dorado road runs parallel with Walnut River avenue, and like most prairie roads, they remained flat and straight. He has ran countless times up and down those roads, the wind off the street made the wheat fields flow, as his golden blonde hair did the same with his every step.
This got his attention, and his head raised.
The eyes. Oh the eyes, Tim said to himself. Deep brown, almost black.
“Timothy, do you know why you are here?”
“Yes ma’am,” Tim finally replied.
“Good let’s talk about it then.” The counsellor shifted in her seat, relieved to have gotten words out of the eighteen year old.
She knew yelling would get his attention, it never failed. When her husband, Ray, would continue to sit on his lazy ass in front of the old ’80s TV. He would rest in his la-z-boy recliner, only moving to scratch his crotch, if he could move his body fat over his midsection. While he watched the Wichita State Shockers, the team he once ruled. Abby as head cheerleader fell in love with that man, Ray the starting point guard. Not Ray, the out of work welfare collector.
Oh how he made her feel. After games he would close the door, while he kissed her down her neck, and unzipped her blouse. His washboard ab-
“Ma’am if I may call you that.”
“Yes, um, of course.” Abby replied.
“Ok, well I don’t think there is a problem with me.”
“According to your parents you have a serious problem.”
“What the hell do they know, it’s not like they are ever around to care.”
“Tim, I want you to know I’m here, and I want to listen to your problems. Please the best way to tackle mental illnesses is through talking.”
“How do you know what I’ve gone through, how can you help.” Timothy stood, and walked to the door.
“Tim! Wait. This is a serious problem, how would others feel if you weren’t around?”
“I don’t have anyone that cares about me. My parents? Drunk addicts. Friends? Huh never heard of them. Seriously I’m alone, isolated.”
“What about Claire?”
Tim turned around and made eye contact with Abby. Her eyes, deep golden brown, reminding Tim of life on the prairie.