Rosemont Station

Tell Me a Story

"So...we meet again, same time, same place."

She always says that whenever we meet.  Mrs. Beal thinks she's so clever when she does.  Her wee little smirk and mischievous sparkle in only confirms this.  It's when I say "Yes, Mrs. Beal" that the smirk turns into a pouty frown, like a kid who couldn't pull a fast one over their all-seeing mother.  She insists that I can call here Frieda, but I always call her Mrs. Beal.  I feel like I'm being disrespect and flippant if I don't.  But that's not important right now.

"I do look forward to our time together, you know," she croons as turns on electric kettle, preparing tea for us.  It's always the same - she has her chamomile packet in her sleek black thermos and I have my lemon zinger tea in a dainty red teacup.  Sometimes, if I'm not careful, my pinky will stick out as I'm drinking it.  "Of all the women I see, no one is an interesting as you are."

"Ah...thanks?"  I know she's being serious...and yet the suspicion won't ease up.  "I should be thanking you, right?"

"Only if you want to."  She does nothing to ease my suspicions.  Not a good way to start a session with a woman who's primary function is to help you sort through your shit.  "Anyway, I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to call you back before we met up today.  But thank you for calling me as soon as you came back into town."

"It's all good."  I wave my arm with a little laugh.  "I know you worry."

"Yeah, and I'm glad that you humour, even if you want to tell me to calm the hell down sometimes."  It's true, but I'd never tell her that.  It's easier just to humour her.  "Did you at least have a fun time out in Rosemont?"

Rosemont...the smile just spreads across my face.  I can't hear that word without smiling like a fool.  "Oh yes...as always.  It was more of a chill out weekend this time around, but there's nothing wrong with that."

"So, you didn't go out and do anything?"

"Nope, nothing beyond eating or anything.  There was this one Japanese curry recipe I wanted to try, so we went to the story to buy ingredients for that.  Oh, and we went for a walk around the neighborhood on Saturday, but other than that, nothing special."

"Bullshit."  Mrs. Beal never hesitates to call me out, though I know she's being playful.  "When it comes to him, everything is special."

I can't stop smiling.  She's not wrong.  I can't tell her that she is.  She'd just call me out again.  "Yeah..."

Memories flash before my eyes. Going to the grocery store to buy the ingredients.  Sneaking in glances while looking for everything.  The tingles running up and down my spine should our hands just happen to brush and bump against each other.  The silly little grin on his face.  The shy smile on mine. And the stares of everyone else who just happens to see us interacting with one another.

She's right.  When it comes to him, everything is special.  That's because he is special.  At least he is to me.

"The glow that you have whenever he gets mentioned.  I should considering bringing sunglasses to our sessions."  Ugh, that smirk of hers.  She thinks she's so clever.  "And here I thought I'd never see you happy about anything, the way our sessions were going."

"Must be nice for you then, since I'm not all about the gloom-and-doom anymore."  

"It's nice for me anyway since I get paid for this.  The smiles just make my job easier."  Such sass.  "But now that you mention it, I don't think you've ever given me the pleasure of telling me how you met that nice young man."

This again.  My breath comes out with a knowing hiss.  "I've told you many times, Mrs. Beal."

She rolls her eyes.  She can dole out the sass but can't take it.  She's so adorable when she's annoyed.

"I know, but I want to hear it again, so humour me," she says while swatting my knee.  "Besides...even you have to admit that it's an interesting tale."

"Even after the tenth time I've told it?" I raise my eyebrow.

"Even then."  I'm not getting out of this.  

I sigh, defeated.  I guess I might as well.  I'm not here to talk about how much my life sucks, or how it seems like I can get my shit together - you know, like the stuff I used to talk about before.  The only thing that I'd consider pressing or angsty is something I don't want to talk about.  Telling her the story again is a welcomed distraction.

"I guess I've got no choice then."  I sigh, sinking into that old purple couch of hers, a little too old, a little too lumpy, and a little too comfortable.  I can hear the station announcement ringing in my ears once again.  "Once again, let me tell you the story of Rosemont station."