Stale coffee somehow looks wrong: more like mud than anything else. I justified drinking the absolutely rank cup of coffee the same way I plan to justify the cigarette I am going to smoke in a minute or two: there is nothing better to do. I didn’t talk to anyone during the meeting; there was no way I was going to talk now. My moment with my coffee and my view of the pale green linoleum floor is interrupted by a pair of white cheerleader sneakers.

“You’re new aren’t you?” she inquires. Her voice matches the shoes.

“Mhmm.” I lazily respond.

She smiles, “I assumed. Like, partly because I’ve never seen you here before, but also because you looked so zoned out. That’s normal though, zoning out, when you first start, but you’ll learn to see the benefit of coming to–” she stopped short doe eyes turning to dagger. “Stop trying to make me leave.”

Startled by her sudden curtness, my finger piercing my styrofoam cup, I asked, “How am I trying to make you leave? We’ve been talking for .5 seconds, you walked up to me, and somehow you’re mad?” I continue to babble but she does not buy it. “How could you tell?” I finally concede.

Her well manicured finger tapping her temple, “I can hear you.”

“Fucking hell.” I detach my finger, dispose of the cup, and turn back to her. “So you’re a telepath.”

“Well what did you expect, Mr. Mind Control?” the softness returns to her gaze.“If there’s ever a place to meet one, it’d be here.”

“And you come here to scare the hell out of people by reading their thoughts?” I cross my arms as though that will keep her from invading my mental privacy.

“No. I’m here for the same reason as you.” She catches my doubtful look or maybe my doubtful thoughts and continues, “It’s in the name–for support.”

“It was nice meeting you.” and “you too.” fall to the floor. I’m not sure who said what; I only realized the moment passed as I watched her join another group of people all smiles, doe eyes, and cheerleader shoes.

She leaves me alone–a win in my eyes. Still I never have people notice how I affect them, and I’ve especially never had anyone go so far as to call it mind control. I didn’t like it. This program that was meant to make me feel better has left me feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. They replaced the middle aged alcoholics with peppy little mind readers, but here I am in Superhero AA. I part the sea of collapsible chairs and make my way out the door knowing that next week, to my own dismay, I will return to “Outpatient of Preeminent Ability” support group.

By Sophie H.