What am I doing here? This isn’t normal, it’s weird. Why did I agree to come? It’s Theresa’s fault. She made me do it. I’ll be damned if I’m coming back. Look at them. Sitting cross-legged, deep breathing, smiling. As high as proverbial kites. Maybe drugs are how they get through it. I should have thought of that. I’ve been here, what? A half-hour? Already feels like a week. I’d better close my eyes or the meditation police will catch me. Damn you, Theresa. I can’t believe I listened to you. We’ve got so much in common, you said. Well, not this. And definitely not your friends. This is a ward of the asylum. Look at me, another sedated zombie with pretzel legs. I’ve got to get out of here or I’ll go insane. Oh to get back to the real world, check my phone, watch the game, have a beer. Who’s tapping my shoulder?

“What?”

“Lansing?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“We’re closing now.”

“What do you mean, closing? Where is everyone?

“They left twenty minutes ago. Looks like you’ve had a great first session. Theresa’s waiting outside.”

“Outside?”

“Perhaps we’ll see you next week?”

“Next week? Okay. Sure.”

Jim Woessner’s writings have appeared in the Blue Collar Review, The Daily Drunk, Close to the Bone, and elsewhere. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College, and he works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California.