Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Painting by Manukyan Inga
We finally reached the clinic two hours late. Sara was waiting for us in the lobby. She led us to her office and, before we could even sit, told us that the test was negative. I didn't have it. Jillian cried, Sara cried, and I sat quietly, unsure as to how to process this information.
We were inside the clinic for fifteen minutes, then back on the road, back in the traffic. We never even considered going back to the psychiatric councilor. It was an unspoken agreement.
Jillian chatted manically in the car. We talked about kids, talked about buying a house. We made plans again and floated through the next few days, fat and happy, and finally settled onto each other one night and fought like dogs, letting out all the tension that had been building over the last year. When the dust settled, we were empty, and waiting to fill ourselves.
Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings