(why would you do that)
“Emmy, you’re being rid–”
(that was terrible, she’s terrible, she’s–)
“She’s just a doctor–”
(why did she ask those questions–)
“It’s what she does. Why are you so upset about this?”
(oh Rorie please don’t go back promise me you won’t)
“That’s rich, Emmy. The voice in my head telling me not to see a psychiatrist.”
(please she’s awful she’s terrible)
“Emmy, calm down, you’re upsetting me.”
(oh Rorie I’m scared I’m so sorry but I’m scared and I don’t know–)
“Hush. You’re freaking me out. You’re making me upset.”
(oh Rorie I’m sorry oh Rorie)
“Hush.”
(please don’t go back)
“Emmy–”
(promise me you won’t go back she doesn’t like me I can tell she doesn’t like me and she wants to hurt me)
“Emmy, hush up.”
(promise me you won’t go back, Rorie)
“You know I can’t do that, Emmy.”

The silence of a crowded moving Tri-Met bus in rush hour. Not a pause, not a sense of momentary quiet or thought or contemplation, but silence. Absence?Rorie’s heart skipped a beat. She almost smiled, almost cried. She put her notebook and pen into her bag and tucked her chin down into chest above crossed arms, and spoke quietly to herself.

“Emmy?”

Silence, and then, she thought, something, faint, distant.

The sound of weeping.