The secretary on the inside of the office sounded like she wore a mouth guard. It was a peculiar sort of underbite slur, slightly disorted, and yet strangely soothing. Cordial, and polite.
A tall girl with miniscule heels and too much foundation eagerly took a xerox of my insurance card and my driver's license. She must have thought I was cute, the way she snapped to action and smiled at me.
The waiting room was composed of three young girls. One of them, who looked to be around 12 or 13, was obviously keeping an eye on the two youngest ones, who rolled around and around on the floor and wouldn't keep quite. The oldest kept telling them to hush.
Young children stare at me. I remember when I was young and I would stare at older people, particularly teenagers and people in their twenties. They held some sort of attractive mystery to me.
My new therapist is a friendly Italian man in his late thirties with olive tinted complexion, a small, compact face, and tidy black hair. He is almost attractive. Photos of small children, which I assume to be his own, line his bookshelves, along with the obligatory sampler of some profound quote by George Sand in cross-stitch.
He listened closely to my spiel and then offered me a cup of coffee. He apologized for not offering it to me sooner, but, in his words you had given me so much good stuff. I guess "good stuff" means that you're honest.
A tall girl with miniscule heels and too much foundation eagerly took a xerox of my insurance card and my driver's license. She must have thought I was cute, the way she snapped to action and smiled at me.
The waiting room was composed of three young girls. One of them, who looked to be around 12 or 13, was obviously keeping an eye on the two youngest ones, who rolled around and around on the floor and wouldn't keep quite. The oldest kept telling them to hush.
Young children stare at me. I remember when I was young and I would stare at older people, particularly teenagers and people in their twenties. They held some sort of attractive mystery to me.
My new therapist is a friendly Italian man in his late thirties with olive tinted complexion, a small, compact face, and tidy black hair. He is almost attractive. Photos of small children, which I assume to be his own, line his bookshelves, along with the obligatory sampler of some profound quote by George Sand in cross-stitch.
He listened closely to my spiel and then offered me a cup of coffee. He apologized for not offering it to me sooner, but, in his words you had given me so much good stuff. I guess "good stuff" means that you're honest.