Peas – Allie Mcfarlene

The psychiatrist told me that my eyebrows were perfectly symmetrical. She looked like
maybe she rode a motorcycle. I told her all of the things that were wrong in her office: the
uneven placement of posters, the arrangement of purple crystals on her desk. She asked me how much caffeine I drink. She scribbled everything down on a yellow legal pad. She could have been more original. It was weird to think of my words, sounds I made with my tongue and teeth, in her handwriting. I wanted to ask her stupid questions, turn the tables. Ask if she’s sexually active. Probably not. But I didn’t. She said I was a polite young lady and I didn’t want to change that impression. She called my mom back into the room. The psychiatrist told her that my head was filled with peas and that I should take some vitamin D. My mom nodded. I did, too. A pea tumbled out of my nose. I picked it up, squished it between my forefinger and thumb. Giggled. Another pea rolled off my tongue and onto my lap.

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