I walk into the coffee shop. A man stands sweeping the same spot over and over again. A couple at a nearby table argue quietly, hate in their eyes. Another man sits in the corner mumbling to himself as he drinks his coffee. A woman sits at the other end with her laptop and papers spread across the table. The girl behind the counter gives me a fake smile and asks what she can get for me.
"Small coffee, that's all," I say. The girl fills a cup and hands it to me.
"One dollar please," she says, her smile long since faded. I hand her the money. She puts it in her cash drawer and walks away without another word.
I walk to a table and notice how dirty the floors are. The table has crumbs on it and is sticky as though it has not been washed in a while. I am disgusted. I hate this place, yet I come here every day.
And in walks the reason. She's a tall brunette, about my age, maybe a year or two younger, but she carries herself like an older woman. She walks with dignity and grace. She's dressed just as attractively as ever. A pair of plain black heels, black leggings that cling to her gorgeous legs, showing off her shapely body. She wears a long dark gray sweater with a turtle neck and long sleeves. It goes low, covering her front and rear, giving her a modest appearance, yet it is tight enough to not be what I would say is over-modest. Her hair is pinned up in a bun in the back, a few curly strands hanging down on the sides. She smiles at me as she approaches the counter to order her drink. When she gets it she comes over and sits down next to me, eyeing the table with disgust as much as I.
"How are you?" I ask.
"Good, and you?" she returns.
"I'm fine Ashley, thank you for asking." I am being cautious. I am even surprised she still wants to see me after our last meeting. "What would you like to talk about today?"
"I don't know...I've sort of been thinking about.....I don't know, maybe meeting in your office?"
"Well I never said we couldn't. Are you getting tired of this dump?" She laughs and nods slightly. The girl behind the counter shoots me a nasty look and goes back to doing whatever she's doing behind the counter.
"I want more privacy...I mean, last time everyone was looking at us and stuff...I didn't like that."
"Me neither Ashley. I'm glad you agreed to meet again though...I think we're finally making some progress...last meeting's incident was...good, I think. It shows that we hit a nerve, you might say. We found something...if you want we should keep talking about your childhood, high school and such...that seems to be where your trouble really started for you." She is eyeing me as if deciding whether to start screaming at me again, or maybe to cry, or maybe to just talk calmly, as she usually does. I try to hide the sadness I feel in my heart. My dear friend, that I've known for eight years has become a patient.
I started counseling four years ago and had been doing an excellent job at it. It was my successful career, and I enjoyed it. Helping others was my juice that kept me going. It was what made life worth living to me. So I did it. But when my good friend Ashley had come to me last year, opening up to me a whole side of her I'd never even known had existed, it had put a strain not only on our friendship, but on my life. I had met Ashley in community college and we had been friends since, even when we went to different schools after. It was hard, being such good friends with someone, and then finding out so much more, so much more that you wish wasn't there. It wasn't all at once. In fact it was probably more my fault. Because when we had met up for lunch last year I asked her about the cuts on her wrist. She said they were nothing, and I decided to not push her. After all, I didn't expect a grown woman to be cutting. But when she came to me a week later, her wrist cut open and bleeding, I knew there was no avoiding it. I had to get involved. Don't get me wrong, I was more than happy to be involved and help her, but what was difficult was that our friendship sort of seemed to stop. We were no longer friends, but a doctor and his patient. It was as if I was with a whole different person. Over months and months of talking about whatever she wanted to, I finally began trying to touch on the topic of her childhood. She had never ever discussed her family, or anything about high school years and earlier. If her past was ever brought up, she was always good at changing the subject somehow. But when I pressed her on it the last time we met, she had become angry. She began yelling at me, and stormed from the coffee shop, the whole place watching the scene unfold. I had sat there for a few minutes staring at the table, trying to think of how better to handle the situation. I had waited a week, and when she hadn't called I called her. She picked up and agreed to talk, and now we are here.
"I'm scared Monty...I know what it is...but I'm scared to tell you."
"You know you can tell me anything Ash," I take her hand in mine. This is the first time I have touched her like this in the past year. I don't know why I do it, but it feels natural, and she seems to respond to it. She smiles at me and tears begin to form in her eyes.
"Not here..." she says.
"We can go to the office then," I say. All my other patients met me in my office, but Ash had never wanted to for some reason, but she never said why.
"No...maybe...you're house?" she asks with pleading eyes. I've never taken a patient to my house, or even told any of them where I live. But Ashley already knows where I live, and she is after all my friend.
"Alright, we can do that," I say.
As we get up to leave a man in a dark hooded sweatshirt comes in. He pulls a gun and points it at the coffee girl, demanding cash. He turns to me and Ashley. I instinctively step in front of her. The man takes it as a threat and shoots. The bullet enters my chest, but I feel nothing. I hear Ashley scream, another gun shot. More screaming occurs, and I feel a body fall beside me. Ashley takes my hand and I give it a squeeze before letting go and using my remaining strength to rush at the man. I tackle him to the ground and wrestle the gun from his hand. Before I pass out I manage to pull the trigger, the gun pointing towards the man's heart.
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