Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy Read Free Page A

just too cold out here.” My nose is running now. He starts wiggling so I put him down and he trots back home as if nothing happened. As soon as we walk in the door, he runs to the kitchen, sits up on his rump, and starts waving his paws. Buster Loo thinks he’s earned a treat. So I give him one. God love him. At least my dog isn’t worried about me going off the deep end. He loves me just the way I am. We snuggle up on the sofa and sleep until well after lunch.

3
    Monday morning, the weather folks are all in a tizzy. To hear them tell it, this winter storm could bury us all! It’s going to dump snow across the southeast like none of us have ever seen before! But that’s what they always say, and either they’re always lying or they’re always wrong, because northeast Mississippi has seen all of two big snowfalls and one serious ice storm in the past thirty years. Yet the promise of snow never fails to keep us glued to our televisions in hopeful expectation, while the threat of ice tends to cause widespread panic. And here I sit, coffee in hand, watching the weather and thinking a good snowstorm would provide a nice break in the monotony of things.
    The sky is dark gray when I pull out of my driveway and head downtown. I take a right off Main Street onto Willow Lane where several historic homes have been converted into offices. It’s a charming area, especially in the summertime when the big oak trees form a leafy green canopy over the street. But today, the bare branches look like skeleton arms reaching out to one another through a foggy haze.
    I drive down the street until I see the one I’m looking for, then make a U-turn and park by the curb. The house is pale green with dark green shutters, and the porch is skirted by glorious evergreen shrubs. There are two giant square columns, six extremely tall windows, and a second-floor balcony jutting out over the double front doors. The wooden sign next to the sidewalk indicates that there is a dance studio, an accountant, some kind of consulting firm, and a licensed professional counselor. Two offices are vacant and available for rent. I walk up the cobblestone steps and admire the wavy glass of the large wooden doors. I wonder how they’ve survived all these years without a single crack.
    The door creaks when I push it open and a gust of cool air comes into the foyer with me. I count six doors, four downstairs and two up. It’s remarkably quiet inside the house. I tiptoe up the steps and look for door number six. I find it to my right and see a small sign that reads, “Rosemary Tallis, L.P.C.” I don’t know if I should knock or just walk in. I put one hand on the knob, then gently tap on the door with the other.
    â€œIt’s open.”
    I turn the knob and walk inside. A girl that looks about twenty is sitting behind a block of something that appears to function as a desk. Instead of a nameplate, there is an ornamental picture frame holding a card that reads
Aurelia
. The letters are thin and wispy, like the girl herself. I don’t see a computer anywhere. Aurelia picks up a pencil, the kind that has to be sharpened, and scribbles something on what I’m almost sure is recycled paper. There are three candles on the corner of the desk-thing, and all three are burning.
    â€œYou must be Graciela Jones,” she says. “Rosemary will be right out.” Her voice is warm and sweet with a hint of an accent. She tells me I can have a seat if I like. I turn and see four squares covered in a pea green fabric that resembles the texture of a potato sack. They look like multi-functional pieces that could either be used as individual footstools or arranged in front of a sectional in place of a coffee table. I ease down on the green thing closest to the door, and my ass hangs off either side. While I worry about crushing it, a horrible scene plays out in my mind where I tumble back against the wall and that giant