Roberta Crofts-Bailey pretended to jot in her notebook as her patient, a trophy wife five years into her marriage, bored and desperate for attention from her husband outside the bedroom, droned on. “I am an interesting person,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “People don't take me seriously because I’m unlucky enough to be beautiful, but I have a mind. I have a mind!” “You certainly do,” murmured Roberta, checking the time on the wall clock. She’d positioned the clock so it would be in her line of sight whenever she made eye contact with patients. The woman was about to launch into her anxieties over an upcoming dinner party, complicated by the fact that she depended on her best friend Julia for scheduling advice, invitation advice and menu advice but at her last party had made the mistake of seating Julia next to Walter and it was her observation that the bitch played up to him shamelessly. “Well,” chirped Roberta. “I’m just dying to hear this but unfortunately our time’s up.
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