Twisters

Nightmares are the spam of the unconscious, the therapist tells him, apologetically. He wishes that were true. And so what are you? he asks.

Birth. Learning stuff. And more stuff. Poop. Buying stuff. Losing stuff. Some fun. Some not so much fun. Some adventure. Boredom. TV. Death.

She watches him sift sand through his fingers. Don’t ruin the mood, she pleads. He looks into her eyes and says, Such is life. And so it is.

She wondered about him, his words shooting out like gum from a fantasy gumball machine, You could be sweet, she said, But you’re sugar-free.

Sunflowers. An endless field of them, kissing the horizon. I love you, she sighs. But he remains silent. Because he hates flowers that much.

He dropped his pen and she bent to pick it up, and he said, That’s what I’m talking about, and she vowed to never do anything for him again.