The office smelled faintly of lemon polish and stale coffee, as if one tried valiantly to scrub out the other. A tall window leaked afternoon light behind the therapist’s chair, and on the opposite side of the room Kal sprawled on a chaise, long body folded into the kind of casual posture that suggested relaxation but hinted at restraint. His street clothes were plain enough, but the slip of bright blue at his collar betrayed him.
“It started when I was a baby,” he said. His voice was steady, like someone confessing a recurring dream. “The first flight I ever took ended in a crash-landing. I still wake up with the fireball in my head, the sound of the ship hitting the ground.”
The therapist glanced up from her notes. “Ship? Not plane?”
“Definitely a ship. A spaceship.”
Her pen scratched across paper. “So, you’re here because you feel alienated from your peers.”
Kal turned his head to look at her. His expression was patient, but only just. “No. I mean—yes, but not the way you think. I literally am an alien.”
“We all feel that way sometimes, Calvin.”
“It’s not Calvin. Just Kal. Kal-El, if you want to be formal, but the House of El didn’t do me many favors. They sent my cousin to find me, but she—well, she was delayed. Another reason flying unnerves me. A different kind of transport and maybe we wouldn’t have been separated for my entire childhood.”
“I see. But air travel is remarkably safe. You’ve probably had your one tragic flight.”
Kal’s laugh was humorless. “But I haven’t.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“My girlfriend likes me to take her places. ‘Fly me there, Clark—’”
“I thought your name was Cal.”
“My family calls me Clark. A nickname.”
“So, you’re a pilot?”
He sat up, incredulous. “What? No. Why would you think that?”
“Well, your girlfriend asks you to fly her—”
“Yes, but not in a plane.”
“A helicopter then?”
Kal pressed his palms to his eyes. “In my arms. Do you seriously not know who I am?”
The therapist blinked, the way one blinks at a patient who has wandered too far into fantasy.
“You’ve never stood on a sidewalk in Metropolis and heard someone cry, ‘Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s—’”
“…a pterodactyl!” she declared, pleased with herself.
Kal dropped his hands. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the line, isn’t it?”
“I was going for Superman.”
“The comic-book character? That’s absurd.”
“And a dinosaur that hasn’t lived since the Jurassic is your more reasonable option?”
She had no answer for that.
He leaned back again, weary. “I used to love flying. Missed the school bus? I didn’t borrow Dad’s pickup or sprint like a bullet. I launched myself into the sky. But there was less up there then. Fewer obstacles.”
“Obstacles?”
“Clouds hide everything. Birds dart at me like skateboarders chasing cars. Drones swarm once their operators spot me, clinging to me like mines on a warship. Smog is worse. People think I can blow it away, but it just relocates. And the more carbon in the air, the weaker the sun shines through. The sun is my fuel. One bad downdraft and—” He snapped his fingers. “Splat.”
“You’d fall to your death?”
“No. I can’t die. But I could land on someone else. Crush them.”
The therapist winced. “Ouch.”
“Exactly.”
He listed off the rest—missiles, fireworks, geese. His voice softened. “Flying isn’t fun anymore. It’s duty. Even a date carries risk. What if I drop her? What if something slams into us? I try to shield her with my cape, but she hates it. Says it messes up her hair.”
“Ah.”
“Flying used to be freedom. Now it’s responsibility layered over fear. And I wonder—are people more reckless because they know I’ll swoop in? If I’d never revealed myself, would they still tempt disaster?”
“I don’t think you can hold yourself accountable for all of humanity,” she said gently.
“Wanna bet?”
Her pen hovered, then dropped to the page. “Meditation might help. Go somewhere quiet. No drones, no geese. Fly for yourself, just for joy. A cabin in the woods, perhaps?”
“A fortress, actually,” he murmured. “Remote. I haven’t been there in a while.” His gaze slid toward the window. His expression sharpened, attuned to something she couldn’t hear. “Hold that thought.”
In a blur he was on his feet, tearing away street clothes to reveal the familiar crest. The sound of shattering glass filled the office as he launched himself through the window, gone before the therapist could gasp.
The silence that followed was vast. Dust floated in the sunlight. The therapist sat motionless, pen dangling from her hand. Just when the stillness began to stretch too long, air shifted. Kal—no, Superman—strode back into the office, brushing glass from the chaise before sprawling on it again, one booted foot crossed over the other.
“Oh,” he said, casual as if nothing had happened. “Did I forget to mention broken glass?”
The therapist blinked at the jagged window, then at the man on her chaise. With a hand that wasn’t entirely steady, she flipped open her appointment book and forced her voice into calm professionalism.
“Let’s… call this a standing appointment.”
Art Credit:Rob Joseph
