Lately, before appointments he’d been asking himself the same questions he’d ask in sessions. “If you were separated, what about your partner would you miss most?” or “What are you feeling inside right now?”
Now? Hungry. Ten minutes until his two o’clock, just enough time for a quick lunch. He checked the calendar; it was a first session, a referral from the cute MFCC he’d been mentoring.
His tuna fish sandwich got stuck in the baggie and then practically exploded in his lap. Why does she always wrap them so tight? Then he thought of the little spot on his wife’s head that for whatever reason, he couldn’t explain, he loved kissing. A cowlick on top where there was just a hint of her white scalp, a small opening in the whorls of her thick black hair. She’d been trying out new hairdressers recently. This last one poofed everything. The spot was all but gone.
He tossed the sandwich remnants into the garbage on his way to the sitting room. A young woman, alone, probably early thirties, bent forward with hands in her lap working the buttons on an iPhone. She was wearing a sheer sports top the kind that wicks moisture away from the skin. A long blond ponytail was pulled straight through the back of a burnt orange cap, with the strands laying smooth down the middle of her neck. He felt himself rolling up onto the tips of his toes as he opened his mouth to speak.