Lucienne Cummings

‘Did you try that exercise?’ June, my therapist, cocks her head in a way that shows she already knows. 

I shake my head. 

‘Is the medication helping?’

‘No.’ I pick at the puckered plastic patch on my arm. My skin is cracking, even though I’ve done nothing to set my histamines off. 

‘Maybe we can try together.’ 

I shrug and shift position. The cheap furniture, framed coastal photos, and vague smell of disinfectant have unsettled me since I admitted myself to the clinic three weeks ago.

‘Is that a yes?’ June says. 

I nod. 

‘Okay, pick a card. Read it out.’ She pushes a shiny black box across the coffee table. 

I pick a card, and freeze — this is some sick magic trick. 

‘Whenever you’re ready.’

My throat’s closing up just looking at it. 

June waits. 

‘I-I…lo–’ I swallow. ‘I…’ I can’t. 

‘Try another one.’ 

I take another card. It’s in French. Sadly, I understand French. I get out ‘Je t–’ before I feel myself wheeze.

‘Hmm.’ June consults her notes. I wonder how often the words ‘pathetic’ or ‘lonely’ feature in them. 

‘Why can’t I say it?’ I ask. ‘Am I broken?’ 

‘I’d like to try something different,’ she says. ‘Are you allergic to anything else?’

#

There’s a knock at my room that evening. When I open the door, a small brown terrier runs in and jumps up on my bed, panting. 

‘Hey!’ I say. The dog whines and puts its head on its paws. The tag on its collar reads: You. ‘You?’ The dog’s ears prick up. ‘Weird name.’ The dog settles down to sleep. In seconds, it’s snoring. 

I envy its ease. 

#

When I go for my morning porridge, the canteen staff bring You a small dish of meat, as if the dog is expected. I look around the room for other animals, but You is the only one.

‘This your dog?’ asks another patient, from behind a mask.

‘No,’ I say.

He tickles You behind the ear. You grunts, receiving the love without question. 

I envy its self-confidence.

#

When I walk in the hospital grounds, You follows me. 

When I journal, You sleep-runs at my feet.

When I lunge to turn off television lovers, You puts a paw on my arm. 

I envy its glossy brown softness.

#

Other patients watch for us. At first they only talk to You, but then they include me too. I’m not good at conversation, but with You it flows like water. I find myself waving to Fiona in the art room, chatting to Nick at breakfast, asking Miranda the lunch server about her kids while she spoons peas onto my plate, winks, and gives You a saucer of chopped steak.

#

You and I sniff sweet cherry blossoms. 

You and I starfish across the bed. 

You and I play with sticks, bark at balls, run up to strangers.

#

‘How’s it going with You?’ June asks one day.

‘I love You,’ I say, without thinking.

Lucienne’s prompts were: In a Medical Facility, Dog/s, An Allergic Reaction

Lucienne Cummings writes tiny things in north-east England. Her flash/micro-fiction has appeared in National Flash Fiction Day’s Anthology and FlashFlood, Mslexia’s Best Women’s Short Fiction Anthology, and Neither Fish Nor Foul, among others. Her comedy writing has been broadcast on TV and radio by the BBC. Find out more at https://luciennecummings.com/