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Show I look up from my notebook there he is, peering at me over the top of his cheap, skin-filled magazine, his eyes full of nasty blue perversions- I've put on my sunglasses. I've watched him in the halls. It's easy to see that he's dangerous. He moves slowly and cautiously, like the jungle animals I've seen on television. But the nurses, stupid cows that they are, they seem to think that he's the game and they're the hunters. I have to laugh the way they gather to talk about him, the way they watch him. If they weren't so dumb, I would feel sorry for them. Damn, he sees me looking back at him. He's getting up. Bare chest, bandages, and tattoos, coming my way. I wonder if he realizes I've been writing about him. There's only one thing to do. I'll get up and be gone before he ever reaches my melted ice and warm Pepsi. Today was Wednesday. Dublonsky was fifteen minutes late for our session. He seemed distracted, not at all his usual self, and he didn't even ask me about the journal. I was hurt. I mean after all this whole goddamn thing was his idea, wasn't it? But I didn't say anything. "I've been thinking," he said after five more minutes of silence. "Yes?" "About your adolescence." "Pimples!" I said. "Unhappiness?" he asked. "Of course," I said, "pimples on my face and unhappiness every |
