Her legs are tucked up underneath her in these kind of billowy, white summery pants, and she’s looking at me funny. And I’m on the couch looking back at her funny, because in the middle of the coffee table between a box of tissues and the African primitive carving is a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon. She’s my therapist; she knows what I drink. And next to that is a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch. She’s my therapist; I have no idea what she drinks, but I assume this is for her. And she’s wearing a little more makeup than usual, you know, enough so that I can notice. And three days ago, the last time I saw her, her hair was brown, and now it’s red. She’s been messing with it for a while. First kind of light brown combed back and then dark brown with bangs, and every time she shows up with a new do she asks me how the change in her makes me feel, like maybe she’s doing it for me. So I spend about twenty dollars’ worth of therapy telling her how great she looks, because just in case she is flirting I want her to know that I know.
