“We build too many walls and not enough bridges, Cassidy. You are not the only teenage girl on this planet that has tall, highly guarded walls; but for those that you love, you have to let them in. Build a bridge, extend a hand,” rambled Dr Hays.
I sat there and just stared at her. Dr Hays’ voice was turning into a monotonous tune, and her figure becoming watery and blurred.
Who gave this psycho the metaphoric handbook to the perfect life? I don’t know why we waste £85 for some do-gooder to tell me that I am The Great Wall of China. What does that even mean?! I was jolted out of my reverie by her alarm clock - good old £85 an hour Dr Hays. Finally the emotional torture was over. She stood up, smoothed over her paisley blue skirt and recited some old Chinese proverb to ‘keep me going’ or whatever.
I picked up my rucksack and hot footed it out of the realm of crazy. I deserved Starbucks. I clambered in to my trustee Starbucks cafe and ordered a spiced soy latte with a shot of vanilla. I flung my bag onto a table and sunk into an armchair. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment; absorbing the sounds, scents and feelings of normality.
My eyes shot open as some steely eyed boy handed me my coffee and promptly sat down in the chair opposite mine.
“Cassidy”, he said whilst nodding to himself, “what’s up with you? Every day at half four you order the same coffee with the same emotionally drained faraway look in your eyes. You keep your cards very close to your chest miss Cassidy, care to fill me in?”
I stared blankly, waiting a few moments to see if he would get bored and vacate the seat I had clearly reserved for anyone but a curious hipster with a boyish grin.
“How do you know my name? And is your life that boring that you stalk dark haired bean poles like me in the hopes that we’ll begin a John Green worthy romance?” I spat out with fiery intention. “God,” I said as I rolled my eyes and sat back in my leather arm chair.
The ‘hipster’ (as I know refer to him as) chuckled and held the bridge of his nose as if to alleviate some sort of pressure.
“Cassidy, have you ever heard the saying ‘we build too many walls and not enough bridges’? Well I was just trying to be patronising and maybe explore some kind of friendship!” He chuckled again, “for God sake Cass! I’ll build the bridge myself; just throw me a fucking bone, will ya?”
I was taken aback by the confidence the hipster exhumed. The last time I was called ‘Cass’ was in Year 7 at the mum’s and daughter’s luncheon. I liked this hipster... Well I liked his big talking at least. I stood up and picked up my rucksack, “walk with me hipster, I have places to go.”
I walked straight out of Stars and crossed over the street. The hipster was galloping after me with his Alexander McQueen’s and green tea chilla in one hand and his tablet in the other.
“So, Cass, tell me your story and where our expected destination is,” said the out of breath hipster.
“Our expected destination is the residence of Miss Branson Cassidy, if you will, and my story is still in draft form, waiting for something spectacular to be added in,” I said with a facetious tone.
“Miss Cass Branson,” he said to himself, “and what would you constitute as ‘spectacular content’ for your story,’ he said as he looked from me to the gravel stone pathway we were following.
I stopped turned to look in his murky emerald eyes and glaze over his thick, raven black hair as he stared back at me; his mouth slightly ajar and lips moist in anticipation.
“Normality,” I said, withholding as much emotion as possible, “my spectacular content I am desperately searching for is plain old normality.”
I felt hot tears prick the back of my eye lids as I turned away from him and carried on walking. I had just built the bridge everyone had been going on about.