by Jennifer Shell

Created on: November 03, 2008

BREAKTHROUGH

I'd been sitting in the waiting room for thirty minutes, and was starting to get impatient. Who does he think he is, anyway? He knows I'm waiting out here for him. What kind of game is this, anyway?

The truth is I know exactly what he's doing. This is my last session with him. He hasn't told me that yet, but he's sure thinking it; devising a way to let me down easy. As if I care. I can see him in there, behind his glorious mahogany desk, scribbling away in my patient folder with the nub of a pencil; I just wish I could see what he was writing.

"Finally," I think to myself as the door to his inner sanctum (as I call it) opens wide enough for him to poke his pig nose through and beckon me to join him. I rise, slowly taking my time, making him wait and cross the room. As I come closer to his office, he pushes the door wider to allow my entrance, and steps out of the way, casually closing the door behind him as I make my way across the threshold.

"Michael," he booms, good-naturedly. "Good to see you today!" as he smacks a meaty hand across my back, just like two good old friends. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes, I'll have a double vodka martini and a beer to wash it down with." I respond, sarcastically. If only he did keep liquor in his office, then I wouldn't mind these sessions so much. I could drink myself into oblivion and fall into a stupor on his fancy leather couch.

"Sorry, buddy I'm fresh out of vodka and beer today. Maybe next week, eh?" This last was said with an evasive chuckle. I doubt he knows I picked up on that. For a psychiatrist, he's not too perceptive. I'll bet he got his PhD from the College of Don't Know Much about Squat, Arkansas.

"Water then," I say.

While Dr. Pig Nose busies himself over at the bar built into the wall behind the couch, I walk to the enormous picture window and pull open the vertical blinds. It's too damn dark in here. I'm supposed to be getting myself into a "better frame of mind" but I'm not exactly sure how to do that if it's always so gloomy. Dr. What's-His-Face looks at me askance, but because I do this every time I set foot into his office, he says nothing. He comes back around the couch and hands me a cold bottle of water; I don't even look at it, but simply put it aside and forget it's even there.

He settles himself into the "big" chair across from me, puts his Albus Dumbledore glasses low on his fat nose, hooks his notebook, my client folder, and his pencil nub off the edge of his desk and looks at

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