At four fifteen everyday, my mother drives home from work to pick me up form home. By four thirty, were on the highway, and by four forty-eight, I'm sitting in a bland waiting room shifting uncomfortably, running my fingers through my hair, and waiting. At exactly five o'clock, I'm in my shrink's office. He doesn't make me lie down, but lets me sit in any position I want. I told him that I wanted a chair. He had one brought in for me. In this particular session, I end up sitting with one leg Indian style, and the other pulled to my chest with my arms wrapped around it.
"How has your day been going Marron?" He asks in his low voice.
"Fine," I reply flatly, and rest my chin on my knee.
"Did you see your father today?" He asks.
"Yeah," I reply. "He told me to have a good day." My therapist nods and scratches something onto his notepad. He's not a bad looking guy. In his early thirties, full head of dark tame hair, sharp keen eyes. He looks like an American movie star. Jon Cusack, or something like that.
"Ah," He says. I nod. And then there is silence. It never fails to happen in my sessions. He tries not to initiate the conversations, and most times I just don't care to speak.
"Goten called me today." I mention suddenly. This causes my therapist to pull his glasses off, set them on the table and look up at me.
"What did he have to say?" He asks.
"I didn't take his call." I reply.
"Do you have a reason for doing what you did to him?" My therapist puts his glasses back on and awaits my answer.
"No," I reply.