Meet the Therapist
"Therapist, prepare yourself, you have a few patients."
"How many?"
"Uh," papers shuffling, "Seven."
Squeaking, swiveling. Shadows obscuring person's face.
"Send them in."
"Of course." Pause. "Just one question, Therapist."
"Yes, Jeremy?"
"Why do you have the lights closed?"
"I was . . .practicing my evil entrance."
"Really?"
Sigh. "The light's out again."
"Oh, I'll go get the mechanic."
"Please do."
Some time later...
"Right, you can try flipping the switch now."
Snap! "Great, it works, thanks."
"Do I get a tip?"
"Get out." Watches man leave, "The nerve of people these days, always greedy and selfish, whatever happened to good, honest—"
"Jeremy, what did you last say?"
"Whatever happened to good work?"
"Before that."
"Get out?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth."
The door shuts, leaving the Therapist in the otherwise empty room with the bright, white light bulb. Brown bun, red lipstick, crisp white shirt, dark knee-length skirt, black heels.
Only one word describes her: Sharp.
A sleek golden tag sat at the side of her chest: Ms. Nourie, Therapist.
Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap goes her finger pads, "Let the games begin."
