Not Quite Strangers

When I got to the shrink's office yesterday I encountered a round-shouldered old woman effortfully climbing the last few stairs before the elevator, hunched over her cane. I recognised her as one of the other regular Tuesday clients in that suite of offices, who in warmer weather had worn a brilliantly coloured Guatemalan jacket.

She was breathing heavily in the elevator; I asked her if she was doing all right, as I can't imagine the snow and ice on the ground have made her life easy of late. She murmured something about it being slippery, and I nodded. I held the elevator doors for her, so she had no need to rush, and opened the door to the waiting room as well. She asked me the time, and we parted ways.

When I was leaving, she was sitting on the bottom of the steps. Maybe wating to catch her breath before venturing out again. Maybe waiting for her ride. I don't know. I wished her well.

We parted again, still almost strangers.