Whitley did everything in her powers to avoid being offensive. Regardless of the path she lead, Whitley left people pouting, blushing or rushing into a state of utter depression. It took only one man to inform her that she held an unconscious desire to destroy others. He went by the name Charles Boswell. Charles was a retired architect living on the upper west side of Manhattan. When he came in contact with Whitley, it was a sweltering day in Central Park. Nearly every male was shirtless. Charles, however, felt his form inferior, thus kept all fabric affixed to his body.
A golden retriever searched for a tennis ball nearby Whitley. This had been her first time sunbathing in seven months. Disturbed by the canine’s prodding, Whitley reached for her t-shirt, covering her cleavage.
“Whatever you’re looking for, dog, it ain’t here,” Whitley whined.
The golden retriever leaned in, licking Whitley’s face.
“Yuck,” pushing the dog off her.
Charles rushed in apologizing, “Spark! That’s not my dog. It’s my friend’s. He’s away…”
“I don’t care,” Whitley barked. “Take that beast away from me.”
“Spark,” Charles giggled. “He’s a sweetie!”
All Whitley wished for was her space back with the sun. “Take whoever’s dog this might be and leave me. You’re wasting my time.” She then fell back onto her giant beach towel, shaking with grief.
Stroking Whitley’s hair, Charles questioned her mental health. “I know a great therapist. She charges little and works her ass off.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You’re delusional and mean.” Charles then dropped his business card beside Whitley. “Call me if you’d like the therapist’s contact information.”
Whitley watched the man disappear into the crowd of sunbathers. She stuffed his card into her purse, knowing full well that a therapist would do her wonders.