Six.
         She counted six bouquets of plastic flowers. Nothing is alive here. The walls of the waiting room were painted an aggressive peach. Linn sat slouched in one of the four chairs even though there was never more than one patient waiting at a time. Everyone fakes something. Sometimes, while waiting, she would flip through a magazine and read about who’s fucking who or 32 ways to stop being ugly or how much money happiness costs. Other times, she would stare upwards and count the tiny pores in the ceiling tiles. 6560, 6561. Today, her fingers unconsciously played with the mouth of her zip lock bag. Grapes. Linn’s teacher had once taught the class that a cluster of fruit is sometimes called a Truss. “What did one hanging grape say to the other? It’s okay. You can truss me!” was the only reason she even remembered the stupid word. In this session, she planned on peeling the skin off each grape with her teeth and sucking on the naked fruit until her hour was over.  Until he stopped asking her about the gasoline they found under her bed. About the fence she had dug on her forearm. About Billy and his bloodhound that howled and howled.

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