Thursday morning I'll talk to her about how they turned off the color, how gray the skies, how black the rest. How I want to close the door to my office, heave up my feet, and fall back in my chair, letting the ships pass on the river below as my jaw hangs slack and I dead-eye the world. Let my days slip by like that, don't make me move, just fix it. She'll say it's quitting the patch, or a battle between the chantix and the lexapro, but she won't know for sure and whatever she concludes will require movement on my part. I don't want to move.
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