The Only Thing
Everyone needs a little respect...
“The only thing I ever wanted was for someone to take me seriously,” Celia said, her fingers shredding the wadded Kleenex methodically, unconsciously.
“I’m sure you did,” he said in soothing tones.
“But I get no respect,” she said, her voice rising, a shrill undercurrent carrying her desperation upon its stretched-tight surface.
She stopped, silent for a moment, then laughed. Or, issued a sound that should have been a laugh. “I sound like Rodney Dangerfield, don’t I?”
“What makes you say that?” he asked, but there was no question in his voice.
“Didn’t you ever watch him? TV? Movies?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, well.”
He made no comment.
“Anyway, yesterday was the last straw, the last brick in the wall. When I came home and found them . . .” her voice trailed off.
He remained silent.
“I mean, it wasn’t like we were still in the throes of romantic love and passion, but, still, if he’d had any respect at all, any kind of . . . of . . .” she searched for, but couldn’t find, the particular word she wanted. She sighed in exasperation, looked at the small pile of tissue fluff that littered her skirt.
“Oh, my, look what a mess I’ve made,” she said and began to pick the bits of lint from her clothing. She giggled, the sound of pure amusement tinkling and cascading from her lips. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“And what was that?” he intoned, calm and unruffled.
She stopped what she was doing and looked at him, a frown puckering her brow.
“You aren’t listening to me, are you? I mean, really listening.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What I said was, ‘oh my, look what a mess I’ve made.’ Didn’t you find it funny?” she demanded.
“Should I have?”
“Yes! It’s exactly what I said yesterday, after . . .”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “You don’t respect me, either, do you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“There! You see! You use those canned phrases, like: ‘why do you say that,’ and ‘tell me more,’ but you don’t really listen to me! You’re just like everyone else! You have no respect for me!” she sputtered.
He made no response.
“They had no respect.” She paused, and the tiny trace of a smile found its way across her lips, then broadened. She giggled again. “But they found out that they should have respect for me, yes they did.”
“What makes you think that?”
Her smile abruptly disappeared. “They found out that I, even I, have my limits. I reached those limits yesterday.”
She shook her head. “My husband and my best friend. They should have had some respect, I mean, they really should have. It wasn’t my fault, really, what happened.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You see! There you go again with the canned phrases! You therapists are all alike. No respect! But I’ll show you, yes I will! Just like I showed them!”
“Why do you say that?”
She pulled the pistol from her purse, pointed it at him and fired. Again and again. And giggled.
“Oh my,” she said. “Look what a mess I’ve made.”