Short Story - TWO A.M.

The prompt this time was “Your new cell phone number used to be the number of a very popular personal therapist.”

As someone who’s in perpetual therapy, I tried to make this as non-dramatic as possible. Let’s have some fun with your regular, run of the mill patient.

TWO A.M.

Her hand fumbles around as if it was rolling in a pile of leaves. Nighttime has left her blind and groggy as she paws at her night table, spitting out grumbles and grunts as her fingers continue to find a whole lot of nothing. Why is the air mocking her? When she finally gets her hands on her rumbling cell phone, it’s yet another unknown caller.

She hates this.

Her new number was previously Dr. Martin Holder’s, one very popular therapist to some very disturbed people. She considers letting it go to voicemail, but at this time of night, who knows what emergency is waiting on the other end of the line?

Thumbing the green button, she groans, “Not me. Go call 911.”

“What?” a man asks. “I don’t need… what?! Dr. Martin, is that you? Did you…did you go through with that sex change operation?”

She blanches.

“Your voice,” the man continues. “Is that the hormones or are you just practicing?”

Okay. Yup. She’s awake now. “Who is this?”

“It’s me! Jonathan Briars? Your ten o’clock Wednesday mornings? I know I’ve been out for a month, but…”

Who goes out of therapy for a month?

With a sleep addled brain, she asks, “Rehab?”

There is a pause, then a high pitched, “No! I’m still in Australia! I was just calling to let you know it will be another month before I come back.”

Australia… what time zone is that? “Listen, mate,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes, “It’s two a.m. here.”

“Crap.” There’s a thump that sounds like he outright kicked something.

“And I didn’t have a sex change,” she says. “Dr. Martin happily swapped his or her phone number, and I inherited it. Thank you, Verizon wireless.”

The pause is even longer this time, followed by an “Um” so extended and whiny, it’s like an old school dial up modem. “Then who are you?”

God help her half-dead brain. Holding in a yawn, her voice is breathy as she says, “Miss Tanya Whithers. Can I go back to sleep now, Mr. Jonathan Briars?”

“Oh!” It sounds like he trips on something this time. There is a small crash of what sounds like heavy books toppling over and a slew of naughty words gushes out. “Shit! Fuck! Sonaofabitch!”

She sits up, brows knitting. “You okay over there?”

“Yeah. Yup. Only thing bruised is my ego. Guess I’ll have to talk about that in my next session. ‘How to screw up with a girl on the phone, part twenty-six hundred.’”

She chuckles at that. “You’re only a few up on me. I’m at twenty-five ninety hundred.”

“Well, I’ll call you a few more times at two a.m. and we’ll see how deep a hole you can dig yourself.”

She can hear the smile in his voice. She hasn’t dated in a long time—a lonnnng time, the kind of hiatus that puts cobwebs between your legs—and maybe that’s why she feels a fluttering hummingbird in her chest at the sound of his voice.

“Are you ugly?” she asks.

There’s another tumble followed quickly by a “What?”

“Are you, like, monstrous to look at?”

“No?” he asks instead of tells.

“Me neither. I’m average. Six out of ten, eight if I dress up. You?”

He sputters and huffs so much, it’s endearing. “Six, but I’ll probably die before I dress up in anything eight-ish.”

Good enough. “Feel free to call me at two a.m. any time, Jonathan. I think you could give me some nice dreams.”

Not waiting for a response, she drops the call.

That was worth waking up for.