She Asked How You Were and Then Talked for Forty-Five Minutes

Some friends call because they miss you. Others call because several days of emotional cargo have piled up and they remember, with great affection, that you are always willing to let them unload.

The first truckload rarely looks alarming. She has had a difficult date, followed by a strange text and something irritating her sister said over dinner. Nothing Madam cannot handle. So you open the gates, let the first little load through, and settle in with your tea making all the appropriate sympathetic noises.

There is plenty of room.

This is what friends do, after all. One woman has had a dreadful evening, the other listens, everybody survives.

Then, somewhere around minute twenty, another truck pulls in to unload.

Oh. There is more.

Madam Appears to Have Plenty of Room

This load contains Brenda.

You have never met Brenda, but she has behaved very badly and must now be unloaded in full. First comes what Brenda said, then what Brenda meant, followed by what Brenda would probably say if anyone confronted her about what she meant. Her outfit has also become oddly important, although Madam is still waiting to hear why.

By now, Brenda occupies a surprising amount of space for a woman who does not know you exist.

You briefly attempt to mention your own week.

“I actually had something strange happen too—”

Wonderful timing. Your sentence reminds her of something else.

Another truck arrives with a fresh load, and this one has brought an old boyfriend from several years ago, which is quite a comeback considering nobody invited him. Beside him are a mother who called at precisely the wrong moment, a cousin who has not been mentioned in six years but is suddenly essential, and one deeply troubling text containing the word “okay.”

Not okay! Not okay with a smiley face. Just okay.

Naturally, Madam understands the gravity of the situation.

You begin wondering how much room is left, but the landfill has never once displayed a FULL sign. Why would it? You answer, you listen, and you possess the eternal patience of a woman who remains convinced that this truck—surely this truck—must be the last one.

It rarely is.

Beep-beep. Another truckload is waiting at the gates. Marvelous.

The Trucks Keep Coming

The next load is a little harder to define. A hair appointment has somehow become emotionally significant, a neighbor used a tone, and her date may have “changed,” although nothing he has actually done appears to have changed. A tiny detail, really. Best not let it spoil forty minutes of discussion.

Then come the items nobody could have predicted: a three-year-old remark from an aunt that suddenly needs fresh attention, a waitress who seemed “off” during a ninety-second encounter, a dream that may or may not mean something, and something Brenda posted and deleted that has nevertheless survived long enough to occupy half an acre.

At this point, Madam is looking across the growing landscape and wondering how she came to own quite so much of Brenda.

Unfortunately, you have the sort of patience that makes every arriving truck assume there will be room.

“You’re such a good listener,” she says warmly.

A mattress is probably also very touched when people mention how supportive it is.

Still, because you love her, you make space. You even ask one thoughtful question, which is generous of you and, predictably, seems to invite another truck in to unload.

Forty-five minutes later, she feels marvelous.

You need a small lie-down.

Eventually, the Trucks Stop Coming

Not because the landfill is full.

Goodness, no.

She has simply run out of things to unload.

The sister has been discussed, Brenda has received more attention than many close relatives, the old boyfriend has enjoyed an entirely unnecessary comeback, and the suspicious “okay” has been examined until there is really nothing left to squeeze from four letters.

Then, with exquisite timing:

“Anyway, I have to run!”

Naturally.

She drives away beautifully empty, while you remain behind surveying several acres of somebody else’s emotional baggage.

And perhaps that explains why the trucks keep coming. Madam does not actually have endless room; it is simply that nobody has ever seen the gates closed. If you always answer, always listen and always find another little corner for one more Brenda-related emergency, eventually people begin behaving as though acreage comes with the friendship.

Meanwhile, she is somewhere saying, “I always feel so much better after talking to you.”

How lovely.

One does wonder why.

But if she regularly arrives overflowing, leaves sparkling and never quite notices that you had a life before she called, Madam may have quietly become something rather different from a friend: a beautifully maintained emotional landfill. No wonder the trucks keep coming.