Excerpt from "Minding Therapy"
by Ros Johnson

As expected, I'm at my usual loss for what to do with myself. I've already deposited my liter bottles of Diet Coke on the table and exchanged superficial greetings and comments with those who cross my path. While engaged in a futile search for food that doesn't reek of chick peas, beans, legumes, or items I wouldn't even know how to identify, I'm accosted by Jess, a brash older woman who once asked me out at a shindig much like this a few years back when I was brand new to coming out. Having graciously taken no for an answer, she had moved on to find the current love of her life, never seeming to begrudge my disinterest in her, as here she is in my face, as she's been again and again ever since that fateful day. © 2000-2002, ArtemisPress: a division of SRS Internet Publishing #06610736

"Hey, Daryl, have you met Angela Martellucci yet? The new gal I told you about before? She's new to this area?"

You told me about someone? Yet another setup attempt, Jess? My eligibility and ongoing singlehood drives these lesbian types crazy and, indeed, seems to pose a desperate challenge to the many matchmakers in this small women's community. Frankly, I am not amused, preferring autonomy as I do. Though I must admit to being flattered by their evident view of me as desirable on behalf of other unattached women everywhere.

I brace myself for the inevitable necessity of disappointing Jess, as, unlike regarding herself, she'll surely advocate diligently for the unknown underdog dyke who's perceived to be less than whole without me by her side. "No, I don't think so, Jess. Why do you ask?" © 2000-2002, ArtemisPress: a division of SRS Internet Publishing #06610736

"She's here, and I think she came with Liz, but it can't be that they're together 'cause Liz is seeing Pam again, you know."

"For real? How do you know?"

"Well, look at them! Don't they look like they're together? And when Terry and I arrived – we were early – Angela answered the door, and Pam and Liz were alone together. And I don't mean in the kitchen."

I make it stop with a wave of my hand and a "Whatever." I'll get the scoop from Pam herself later. Just get to your point, Jess.

"Well, anyway, Angela's a therapist who works with Liz."

Great – another uppity Littleport Mental Health person. My agency is located in the county west of Littleport and serves a population neither as large nor diverse in ethnicity and economics.

Jess continues, unaware of my internal opposition. "In some other part of the agency, I guess – and for the longest time Liz didn't even know Angela was gay. She's not at all obvious – you'll see what I mean. But when Angela actually moved to Littleport–"

"Whoa! You can actually stop right there, Jess. I've sworn off dating other therapists, social workers, counselors, do-gooders…"

"So, who said anything about you dating her? I'm just telling you about the new kid on the block." © 2000-2002, ArtemisPress: a division of SRS Internet Publishing #06610736

Right. "Well, good, because I don't even want any more of those types as friends – especially therapists! So who do you know here who builds houses or delivers mail or something?" Jess herself is a nurse, another too-related field.

For the next twenty minutes, I receive the low-down on every other available woman at the party, as Jess subtly points them out and offers biographical sketches à la People magazine. This proves fun for the sheer sport of it, but gets me nowhere otherwise, as neither do I possess the nerve to initiate small talk with anyone I don't know nor does anyone thrill me enough on first inspection to employ Jess to do the dirty work. As I'm thinking this, an enchanting and fresh face catches my eye, its attached body coming our way with Terry, Jess's lover.

"Jess, you've been holding out on me," I accuse through pressed lips, as though I'm suddenly a ventriloquist and she my dummy.

"You weren't interested," she hisses back.

I'm looking – no, gazing – into the liquid brown eyes of Angela Martellucci. Pretty Angela. She with the dark, wavy hair, cut fashionably and to the chin. Possibly the sweetest smile on the face of the earth and the fullest lips I've ever not kissed. I barely notice Jess and Terry scurrying away from the scene of this well-choreographed introduction that unexpectedly will shake my world.

"Well, Angela!" I boldly venture forth. "May I call you Angie? I just have this thing about…well, it probably started with Mommy. It's the ie thing at the end and I've never gotten over it. Some kind of infantile fixation Freud missed. I'm actually jealous – no, envious – of people who can do that with their names. Obviously I can't. 'Darylie' just isn't…"

That grin that covers her face and her engaging giggle are two of the factors that maintain me on the course of this unbelievable ramble. I feel encouraged. Boy, if Angela only knew about this wicked social anxiety of mine – otherwise known as shyness, when you haven't been brainwashed day in and day out to view ordinary problems as pathological conditions. Then again, Angela's a therapist, too – she can see right through me.

Finally finding the off switch for this incredible incessant babbling machine, I throw up my hands and sputter, "I'm not usually like this, Angela."

"You can call me Angie, Daryl," she replies with a hint of flirtation and the implication of conferring upon me an honored privilege. Or perhaps I'm reading too much into this.© 2000-2002, ArtemisPress: a division of SRS Internet Publishing #06610736

"Okay, you asked for it, Angie. Can we go sit somewhere?" I hear myself asking, automatically steering her away from the food tables so as not to be too distracted by those increasingly disturbing hunger pangs.

Comfortably ensconced in Pammy's small den, away from all the others, I've now switched gears to lending my full attention to Angie.

Buy this e-book! .© 2000-2006, ArtemisPress: a division of SRS Internet Publishing #06610736