Therapy Session 4

She looked around, surveyed the serene room; lush yet tidy. Dense-piled beige and black pillows had been punched and arranged on the long sofa, and on her chair that wasn’t a chair at all, but an extensionof the sofa in the form of a tight turn, an elegant elongation barely forming the bottom of the letter L.

The lights were low. Her Moleskine was at hand. She was ready for him, or she thought she was, anyway, until he walked his blue eyes, along with the rest of him, on into the room.

“Doctor, ah, Cherry?”

She stood still, stroking her fountain pen between her long fingers. “Hello, Evil. How have you been?”

He walked forward. “No Sparky?”

“Wha…what?”

“Last year you called me Sparky.”

“Why, why, yes, I certainly did.”

“And? No Sparky now?”

“Well, as I recall, last year, we didn’t get much actual work done on you. So I thought…”

“Are you kidding me? We got an amazing amount of work done on me. I felt like a new man after our session.”

“Heh. Why, I was worried you might’ve been a little…winded, is all. Because our session was so…protracted.” Dr. Cherry looked up into those blue, blue eyes….and, um, oh yeah, she made herself continue. “So I thought this year we might try a different tack. We might try…talking.” She sat on the bend in the sofa, patted besider her, motioning Evil over.

“Talking.” Evil snorted, taking off his jacket. “Hell, I talk and I write and I write and I talk and it’s all editing, all the damn time. There’s only so much cerebral a man should have to handle.”

“Oh, Sparky. I’m so glad my implosive therapy worked on you last year, honey,” Dr. Cherry said, beginning her unbuttoning.

“Implosive? I don’t think so.”

--Robin S.