“Are you comfortable? Yes? Good!”
Shuffling papers. The smell of incense burning somewhere in the recesses of the dimly lit room and cigarette smoke cloaked by mint gum.
“How are you today Julia?”
“Just fine? Could you elaborate a bit more for me?”
A heavy pause whilst pen scribbles across the pad in a frenzy of illegible scribbles. The annoying smoker’s cough blowing warm air my way. My nostrils flare from the unwelcome attack.
“Do you remember what we discussed last week?”
“You mean not telling my parents about you touching me?” I grin. The papers shuffle aggressively and another whiff of cigarette breathe blew my way.
“Julia, you agreed to behave in this session. Last week we discussed your dream. Do you remember?”
I hesitate. What can I say? That I don’t want to talk about it. He will make me relive the past six months of therapy again; the boring talks about trust and understanding. The stupid sessions looking at ink blots of his anus and paraphernalia. No drinking allowed to cushion the so-called therapy. Sigh.
“Yes Doctor Puffin…I remember what we discussed.”
His silence was deafening. A phone rang in the distant offices and the clickety-clack of long fingernails tapping black qwerty keyboards filtered through the wooden divide.
“Are you ready to talk about it Julia?”
“Of course Doctor Puffin. What would you like me to say?”
Sigh. Cigarette breathe and sandalwood incense. I’ll probably remember the smell for the rest of my pathetic life.
“Okay! Doctor Puffnel.” Okay. Deep breath. What’s the worst that can happen?