"I think you're perfect, to some extent." I smiled at her, hoping to cheer her up as she was in a state of gloom and misery.
"Wrong word," she shook her head and pulled her knees up to her frame.
"What do you mean?" I sat down next to her, as she threw bread crumbs at some pigeons.
"Catachresis, the incorrect use of a word or a phrase. Perfection strays far away from me. If you were to put Perfection and I in a locked room, Perfection would crawl through the bricks to get away."
"Aw, come on. You don't really think that, do you? I mean, look at you. You're beautiful, inside and out."
"My organs aren't really beautiful, you know. And hate to break it to you, neither are yours."
"You're as amazing as a supernova is, that better?"
"A supernova? A supernova is an explosion that just briefly outshines an entire galaxy, just for a few moments before fading away into bitter blackness. I'm an explosion? You're right."
"And you say that I'm the pessimistic one here?"
"Sorry."
"It's okay. I understand this mood of yours. Been there and done that."
"Thank you."
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
