A Walk Down Misery Street

She was about forty five. She sat across from me at a table in a light-colored, décolleté dress, with beads on her tanned chest.

“You’ll be a good counselor, I’m sure. You are interested in people; you are not indifferent to them,” she said.

“Good to hear this, thanks. You’ve helped me like an angel. But how can I get a job in my new profession? Everywhere they require experience. Tell me, how do I get this goddamn experience? I still work as a security guard, guarding that fucking trashcan every day!”

The sushi boat suddenly appeared on the table, thanks to the waitress. It held a variety of rolls and sashimi.

“Is your resume done already?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you want my help with getting a job? There are no openings now in my clinic. But I know the manager in another outpatient clinic. I could ask him to talk to their director.”

“Sure thing, do it. If I get a job, then I’ll owe you another sushi feast.”

We had more sake. My dear aunt taught me how to use chopsticks instead of a fork. Sake warmed us on the inside, and on the deck of the food boat, there were fewer and fewer rice balls and salmon pieces.

The waiter brought the check. I paid for our fine dinner, while my aunt added ten bucks for the tip.

We left the bar when it was already dark. Slowly we went to the subway down the square. We were both feeling loose and relaxed on this warm autumn evening.

“Oh, Peter, it’s so nice being with you, a real feast for the soul!” she said, taking my arm. She pressed her breast against my shoulder.

It occurred to me that she might want to continue the “soul feast” at my house.

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