For My Therapist

I have had the feeling of being inferior once before. I was in the house of an ex-girlfriend and her brother was over and it was a swank place on the Lower East Side and she had just made some Indian food and was nervous about how it came out.

It was my first time meeting her brother and everyone was talking about things I didn’t know. They were speaking English and I could understand their words but they smiled at things that made me wonder why I wasn’t smiling, too. Took things seriously with faces that didn’t move, and tilted their heads when they were curious or suspicious which only seemed to be when I was speaking.

When the food was finished and I hadn’t been engaged by anyone else, I wanted to help so I began taking the dishes off the table. I took the plate then put on another plate then made a “T” locking the plates into one another, allowing me to stack more plates, as well as, forks, knives, and spoons and realized that all these people are going to know that I pay my rent, broadband service, t-mobile account, and gym membership by waiting tables.

“Look at him.”
“Six plates stacked up.”
“You should come over to my house!”
“He’s definitely got some experience.”
“You missed a spot!”

Which would never happen, cause once I felt their eyes on me for a second too long I let go of the “T” formation allowing every single plate to slip from my fingers, breaking on the dining room table and hard wood floor.

“Oh my God.”
“Are you ok?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Thought you had a lot of plates.”
“So embarrassing.”
“You stacked them high.”
“Are you ok?”
“Let me get that.”
“Sit down.”
“For a second I thought he was a professional waiter!”

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