Don't Say Something

What does it look like? She says. Cold spring afternoon, the window faces a casino in the harbor, sea gulls in from the sea and I always find myself looking at the dust gathered around the crown moulding in the corner, but I never mention it.
Like ants, a thousand black ants in my gut, just full of them, they're a dense mess but also skittering into my nerves. Her body is slow, sedate, she always looks at me with a half smile that is supposed to inspire confidence. It does. Sometimes I think she falls asleep as I'm talking and I always notice when she writes things down in her pad.
What would happen if you imagined yourself drinking a tall glass of clear, cold water? Picture it running down your throat into your belly, feel it wash out the ants and refresh your body. 
And I did, I really tried. I pictured the water, I let my belly freeze, I saw the ants flailing in the rush of the wave, but when they were gone, all I had left was nothing. A great big cavern of empty, of air, and there was nothing left to breathe.
The ants returned soon after, and I didn't protest. It seemed they might as well.
I think maybe we'll try something else next week, she said. and I left the cash on the little table by her chair before I walked out.