She keeps a rug on the floor and the overhead lights turned off. A lamp in the corner lights one half of the room, the other half lit by the lamp on her desk, or by the light coming in from the window, depending on the time of day. Two armless chairs face one another in the middle of the room. Like a Beckett play. Behind one chair, her chair, is the desk. Real plants with long, broad-striped leaves fill one corner; in another, an empty birdcage. The Therapist has seen the news. She knows what happened. She asks me, in a very quiet voice, to tell her the story again. I tell the story again. At the end of the session, she schedules our next appointment and sends me to the psychiatrist at the student health center. She says she’ll call ahead. He’ll be expecting me. The Psychiatrist in the student health center downstairs also asks me to tell the story. He listens without blinking, sitting with his legs crossed at the knees in a chair that could swivel but doesn’t. He does not write or move or look away.
