Before the flight

  Illuminated by the street lights, perched on his bar stool, Konstantin Konstantinos the Third looked out of an open window. He was pensive. Nearby, Night Owl wiped empty tables, looking in his direction with anticipation. He had just asked him a question and he awaited an answer.

'Name three greatest military commanders of all times', the question went, and now Konstantin Konstantinos the Third absentmindedly studied graffitis opposite the road, buried in his thoughts. 

'Napoleon will be one', volunteered Night Owl encouragingly. 

'Oh yes, said Konstantin Konstantinos the Third, 'and Alexander the Great just after that.'

Night Owl stopped in his tracks. 

'I thought you were going to name Hannibal' he raised his evebrows. 

'Hannibal was mostly about potential', said Kontantin Konstantinos the Third and took a sip of his beer. Soon, the window would need to be shut. It was getting late and we were the only people in the pub. It was also getting cold. I could feel my ears aching from the wind. 

 Luciano had only just arrived. But soon we were going to have to leave, as Night Owl said, the rules are very strict like that- his own wife had to wait for him outside. But Luciano remained enthusiastic as the next morning they were planning a trip to Lanzarote. There was going to be four of them, one of them absent but badmouthed by the other three. The fourth one, Ivan, had become a Lindsay Lohan of the four, after he had dared to book a separate train ticket to the airport. That was also one of the reasons why he wasn't joining, but it didn't surprise me. I had never met anybody called Ivan before, so it was only fitting I wasn't going to meet them that night. 

 Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was a bit disappointed about the window. He got accustomed to changing weather and cold winds. But Night Owl assured him it was indeed too cold. He was going to close the window long before we arrived. 

 But we had the last toast to drink, the one to celebrate Konstantin Konstantinos the Third receiving a research grant. 

'Hire me as your assistant', said Luciano who's, conveniently, his colleague. 

'Seventy percent of that is supposed to go towards assistant's salary', muttered Konstantin Konstantinos the Third grimly.

'I'd make a splendid salaried assistant', Luciano gulped his beer. 

'You'd have to call people'. 

'Okay, better no then.'

 After that, we were heading to a gyros place. Gyros that Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was frustrated that we couldn't pronounce. It's a very particular type of 'h'. Not everybody is familiar with this one. It's a throatal, quiet sound, that makes you want to drink tea in the sun and forget the world. A sound like no other. 

 Night Owl had started to lock up. The basement space where we celebrated a birthday not so long ago was now empty and deserted, our traces erased. The buffed tables shone with gloss. The board listed special offers for the day, beetrot, yorky and crushed swede. The new moon had already shone. Outside, the street went quiet. 

 And maybe I should tell this to Mr Frank, or a real therapist, or my dad when he calls tomorrow, that pubs on Monday evening are liminal spaces. You come from somewhere and you will walk away, to the airport, to the comfort of your bed, or into the unknown of the night. Meanwhile, Night Owl turned off the lights, and the city went to sleep. 

Mr Frank, elle panique! and the anguish of creating bucket lists

  It was a strange feeling to sit in front Mr Frank again. I had abandoned him so long ago I nearly had a problem to find my way through deceiving alleyways of my memory. And yet then he was, untouched by time, with his nailfile in his hand. Frozen in time, or rather, in this instance, frozen in my mind. 

 I could no longer recall the exact moment when my thoughts drifted away from Mr Frank. People say that the reason why it's so easy to do is that we don't appreciate those who are always available. And Mr Frank, living in my head, has been the most accessible person of them all. Still, knocking on his door after such a long time, I didn't expect his main complaint to be having been replaced by a real therapist. For years Mr Frank had provided the only therapy he believed I needed: just as all imaginary therapists, he simply always told me what I wanted to hear. Hence he liked to describe himself as an 'affirmative voice' that we all desperately need in our life. I never contemplated whether I needed Mr Frank anymore than any other parts of my psyche. The role of imaginary creatures, as I imagined, was to just be there, in the same way you furnish your flat with items that are known to be too bulky to easily remove. And yet, it was in a middle of my grief therapy when my thoughts carried me back to Mr Frank's office. Maybe the old, antipathetic figment of my imagination still held some sentimental value. Or maybe because I had finally appreciated the one-of-a-kind offering of an imaginary therapist: in the world that becomes more brutal by day, sugarcoating appears as almost a revolutionary act. 

 Whatever my reason was, soon I found myself in front of Mr Frank, and it quickly felt like coming home. He was drawn as usually, with a sharp, dark line of a soft pencil. He leant casually back in his armchair, operating his nailfile with utmost precision. Pencil drawings don't age. Not even the sharp ones. He didn't even look up when he uttered 'so what brings you back', not without a certain indignation. I explained it to him that holding onto an imaginary therapist, while undergoing real therapy for a very real grief, wouldn't be a good idea at least from mental health standpoint. He shrugged, as he usually does when he disagrees, and he disagrees only if he knows I will agree with him afterwards. 

'You are not qualified to offer grief therapy,' said I, 'you need diplomas for that, experience, online reviews.'

 The last example was bad and I knew it. Imaginary creatures live only inside a mind that created them, and naturally no one else could ever write a review for them. Still, Frank seemed unmoved. 

'What do they make you do, these real therapists in the real world?', he asked the nailfile. 

'A lot of exercies have to take life step by step and feel better.'

'What about a bucket list?, Mr Frank shot back, and I paused for a moment. 

'That's what people do while they're in crisis', he began to explain, and I felt I had missed his patient voice. 'They create a bucket list to have something to look forward to, and to treat different achievements as pit stops to fuller life.'

I wasn't sure how to explain that I had, in fact, failed profoundly on creating a bucket list, multiple times. Every time I jotted down a few things, immediately other emerged, that were just like the previous ones until I could no longer distinguish one goal from another. And then I concluded I really want to to everything, while simultaneously do nothing at all. But I guess that's everybody, at least to some extend. 

'There must be something you really want to do. Something you feel like you have to do', nudged me Mr Frank. 

'I have to go to IKEA', I muttered. It was true on two counts. I needed a lampshade and, speaking of bucket lists, that was where my only clearly articulated bucket list item lived. 

'I never had IKEA meatballs', I finally said, and Mr Frank jumped in his armchair out of joy. 

'You see, how easy it is! Bucket list item one, and now you have a true goal to keep moving forward towards.'

 What he was saying actually made a lot of sense. But what if, just what if, it remains my only bucket list item? And when you fulfill your only one goal, who will you become? How changed of a creature would I become if I finally ate IKEA meatballs?

 Just as back in the days, visiting Mr Frank left me with more questions than answers. And just as back then, I left knowing I would see him again.