by Grace Carpenter
He sits in front of her like some kind of Buddha, legs folded on the carpet, slightly protruding belly just visible through the folds of his loose shirt. She’s fond of that belly, the way it jiggles happily when he laughs and bounces around when he runs shirtless, jumping off cliffs or chasing her with a feather duster. His belly is playful and free. She needs that.
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The therapist is nondescript. She sits in front of Lily, nondescript brown hair hanging limply around her nondescript eyes and cheeks. The ambivalent half-whisper that emerges from her exceedingly ordinary lips is monotone. Her figure is thoroughly average, as are her dress and shoes. The pad of paper in her hands is appropriately stock, and the handwriting upon it is perfectly indistinguishable from that of every other person in the universe.
Continue reading Lily Padded by Grace Carpenter