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I have no sentence to offer you, but I need you to know that this idea is brilliant. Can I borrow it sometime if I should need it? — Jacqueline says this with the patience of a mother.
She sits comfortably in a volcanic gray mid-century modern armchair. Over her right shoulder two tall rectangular windows offer a view of a brick building across the street. Light pours in. The room looks similar to the sixth image that loads if you Google: what a therapist's office looks like. The room is quiet.
Milton, I asked you a question. — Jacqueline’s voice follows her gaze in the direction of Milton, or Milton Kertis as it is written on a folder in her lap. Milton Kertis looks less like any image that appears when you Google his name and more like the seventh image that appears when you Google: quirky GQ cover story.
Um. Yes, definitely. The idea is available for anyone to use. — Milton adjusts his crystal-framed glasses. He stands inches away from and stares at Jacqueline’s framed degree. All of the words on the degree blur illegibly expect for her name. Milton reads her name out loud to himself. — Jacqueline Feather Kimura. Your middle name is Feather. — The intonation in his voice rides a thin line between question and statement. Milton moves toward the only couch in the room and sits perfectly in the center.
I don’t believe that you don’t have a sentence to offer, he says. You could respond with something moth-eaten or prosaic if you didn’t want to try, but I was just asking for a sentence.
Buffalo, says Jacqueline, buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo. —Jacqueline smiles slightly but ultimately keeps a straight face.
Hmm. Milton smirks and tilts his head. Restrictive clause and reduced relative clause, nonetheless it is a sentence. Contained within the sentence is also a short story about how people treat each other, I suppose.
People? Jacqueline takes note. It’s a sentence about buffalo.
Yes, I’m sure it is. Milton turns his head to gaze out the window.
Jacqueline reads Milton’s body language. The room falls silent again.
I see the way you glance at your watch, Milton says. Continuously reminding me that our time is budgeted and paid for.
I would ask you to remember that I’m paid to help you, Milton. Our time together is just a means to get there. Jacqueline leans in a bit. Last time you were here you mentioned someone named James.
Oh, James. Yeah. We are neighbors who often chat across our balconies about our cats. But, um, he doesn’t know that I don’t have a cat. And then there’s Chris and Maril, who moved, they used to be my neighbors; he was a loose cannon cop, she was a temporal physicist, and their best friend was a talking Great Dane.
Is that real life or an elevator pitch? Jacqueline jests.
Well, obviously the dog didn’t talk per se but they employed a dog whisperer from time to time so they knew what the dog was feeling.
Jacqueline takes a deep breath and adjusts her posture. She purses her lips. Okay, what do you want to talk about today?
Milton is stoic, he stares ahead and then down at his hands until— I keep having that same overwhelming sensation that I’ve died before or that I am dead or that I’m behind the curtain in some false reality. I get stuck on the details still. The small things. I leave this office debating whether the yellow chair you never sit in is daisy or lemon twist. I’ve been coming to you for years and I still get stuck on the color of a chair. Because I still have to know the full truth of every given moment. Otherwise there’s doubt. I know the fabric on that chair is cordova amber but sometimes the light—
Milton and Jacqueline both stare at the empty chair in the room. Milton stands from the couch walks over to the yellow chair and sits in it. He looks at Jacqueline and gestures toward the two large windows. — At some point every afternoon the light that pours through those windows makes your office look like a John Register painting.
***
Above the hotel bar hangs a framed print; a painting of a lone chair in a spacious room with windows that overlook the clouds. Below the print the bartender, with her back toward Milton, reaches for a bottle of bourbon.
Milton's fingertips dance across the bar in time with the piano that plays behind him. A whiskey glass lands on the bar in front of him. The bartender tips the bottle of bourbon over the glass and pours, she notices his fingers dancing. — You play?
No. — His fingers stop abruptly. Milton lifts the glass, tilts it slightly toward the bartender as if to cheers her, then puts the glass to his mouth and nonchalantly swallows the all of the whiskey. Behind him the pianist continues playing, beautifully moving from one composition to another. Milton turns toward the hotel lobby and watches the pianist maneuver her hands across the keys of a baby grand piano.
Thinks she’s Mozart or somethin. — The bartender quips as she wipes the bar and slings the towel over her shoulder.
It’s Philip Glass. She’s playing Philip Glass, Milton says. He stands up from the bar, walks across the lobby, approaches the piano and drops a tip into the glass tip bowl. The resounding notes of the piano fill the small hotel lobby. Milton stands back and watches her play. He is drawn to the composition and to the movement of her hands. Milton moves his hand to his chest and closes his eyes. The intensity of the song builds, the pianist’s hands move faster as the song swells.
Milton’s eyes open, they are glassy with tears. A flicker of light catches the corner of his eye. He turns his head toward the large glass doors of the hotel. A speeding car jumps the curb outside and careens toward the hotel lobby. A crescendo of music matches a crescendo of glass as a pair of headlights propel toward Milton. The bumper of the car strikes him. His body is thrown. His head hits the floor.
He blinks his eyes. Steam and smoke pour from the car. He coughs. The incident settles into debris around him. He pulls the acrid smoke into his lungs and knows nothing will ever be the same again—
***
The light falls into Jacqueline’s office at a sharp angle. The contrast of light mirrors the painting hung above the hotel bar. Milton sits in the yellow chair. A tear slides down his cheek. I can’t remember her face, Milton says in a whisper.
Who’s face?
The pianist. Milton’s fingertips press against his knee as if to play a few notes. But it’s not just that I can’t remember her face. It’s like I never saw her face or she didn’t have a face. And then I start to have doubts because if she didn’t have a face then the moment couldn’t be real.
I think we both know that she had to have a face.
Do we? Milton looks directly at Jacqueline. I used to have a coworker. The minute the clock struck five, he was up from his seat, and out the door. Everyday. I used to wonder where he was going in such a hurry. But I never asked him. Looking back, I start to wonder about his routine and how he was programmed. And if I really start spiraling, I start to wonder if I even existed at all before the coma.
Milton stands and walks back towards the couch. He sits down, crosses his arms and his legs, then admits — I have a theory.
Before we entertain theories, Milton, I want to assure you that you do exist. I don’t want to encourage your spiraling into a place of anxiety.
Milton folds his hands together on his lap and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, pacing the breath through his nose. He breathes patiently and begins speaking with his eyes closed. — I’ve been having this recurring dream where you’re God. The coma was death and you are God. But when I wake up from that dream I’m not even convinced that the coma was real. Milton scrunches his face and lowers his head. He raises one hand to his forehead.
Milton, there are days when we all question our reality. When things feel so outside of our control. You don’t need to tackle everything all at once. Jacqueline leans forward and reaches a hand to Milton’s knee.
Milton adjusts his posture, raises his head, and struggles to find these words. I’ve been reading a lot about artificial intelligence recently.
Jacqueline reclines back into her chair. What are you suggesting?
That there was no me before the coma. I was built. And your job is to make sure I don’t come to this realization.
***
Jacqueline stands in a small bathroom. She is dressed in a modest black cocktail dress. She stares into a small mirror and pulls her hair back into a scrunchy. She crouches down and finagles her hand through the cabinet under the sink and retrieves a hidden whiskey bottle. She glances at the bottle to read the label, all the words are blurred and illegible. Jacqueline pours the high-end whiskey into two small Dixie cups and downs them in quick succession.
***
Milton sits in the exact center of the couch in Jacqueline’s office. He adjusts his crystal-framed glasses. I’ve been trying this exercise recently where I ask people for the first sentence of a story they’d like to read.
Jacqueline looks up from her lap, unprepared to respond. Oh, I have no sentence to offer you, but I need you to know that this idea is brilliant. Can I borrow it sometime if I should need it? — Jacqueline sits comfortably in a white mid-century modern armchair. She is dressed in a pristine white pant suit. She wears white gloves and white shoes.
The office they are sitting in looks exactly like the room in the painting hung above the hotel bar. The lighting is unnaturally sharp and vibrant. The tall rectangular windows offer a view entirely made-up of sky with clouds collecting below whatever floor they are on.
Milton and Jacqueline sit still and stare out the window. Time speeds up and the sharp edge of light casts itself across the room, washing over both of them.
***
Jacqueline exits the small bathroom, adjusts the waist of her cocktail dress, collects herself, and walks out into a service hallway. She walks the length of the narrow hallway into the backend of a restaurant kitchen. Her heels clapping against the floor.
Samantha! A man calls from behind her. Jacqueline turns as the man approaches. The man looks exactly like the third image that loads if you Google: hotel manager. Samantha, he says, thank you for filling in at the last minute. Please let me know if you need anything.
Jacqueline shakes his hand and thanks him. She turns and pushes her way through the kitchen’s service door and walks out past the hotel bar. She walks to the center of the lobby, sits down in front of the baby grand piano, and begins to play, beautifully.
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