Cloud 9 Minus One

Rhonda is beautiful and blonde. She has short hair cropped close to her skull, and smiling lips. Her eyes radiate peace. She wears a skirt suit, with an olive green tank top underneath, and low-heeled black shoes. In her ears she wears tiny diamond studs, and around her neck a small diamond pendant on a thin chain. On her right wrist, there’s a medium sized watch with a narrow twin coloured strap. She is always calm, no matter what I say to her. And she listens to me as often and for as long as I like. Sometimes, she wears a starched handloom cotton sari with a comfortable blouse, but the rest of her jewellery remains the same.
Rhonda, of course, doesn’t exist except in my head. I picked out a name for her from a character in one of the CBS TV series, and made her my friend. An ideal friend. One who only listens, who doesn’t ask questions and who gives advice that one can follow. But most of all, one who listens. Listens to all my complaints, my dreams and desires. As Rhonda assumed an increasingly central role in my life, I thought I was becoming insane. After all, it isn’t normal to talk to an imaginary person all the time.
Then I spoke to a friend, a real friend, not an imaginary one. This real friend has a real name, Stuti. Stuti and I were talking one day about everything under the sun, and then she told me with a half-ashamed smile on her face, “You know, when things get too much for me, I talk to an imaginary friend. Isn’t that weird?”
In that exchange, Rhonda took a backseat as I hugged Stuti and told her it wasn’t weird at all. It was perfectly normal. We were perfectly normal. We need to rely on someone in times of trouble. Who better than our alter ego, in my case, Rhonda?