Psychic Windows Washed

Red sun dropped below a psychiatrist’s left brain, not to mention the Cascade Range. The psychiatrist’s opinions rose: “Computers aren’t anything, and no one knows how the brain produces emotions. Anyone who claims to know is lying.”

On their tiny platform, window washers dropped into view, 17th floor. Patient and psychiatrist looked at them. They looked back.

The patient promised to call the psychiatrist, especially if the patient were to feel like a blackbird flying over ice-fields or to sing obscure anthems in retail stores.

The psychiatrist and the patient shook hands. Dusk now. The window washers winched themselves down. The patient took the elevator. The psychiatrist could not tell whether the windows were cleaner. That would have to wait until morning.