Thompson asks. Her office is bright and airy, and at the start of every meeting, she apologizes and then gets up to shut the blinds, covering the window above her desk so the sun doesn't blind either of us. She always makes a joke about wanting to blind me so I'll forget I'm in a doctor's office and it will trick me into opening up to her more. Every time she says it I wonder if she knew my mother in another life and stole all of her best lines. I always sit on the buttery soft, white leather couch with my shoes off and my legs curled up underneath me, and Dr. Thompson sits directly across from me in a dark blue recliner. She says it's more comfortable and inviting to talk this way, and she hopes it makes people feel like they're just chatting in her living room. Her office is warm and inviting, which I guess is typical of a therapist's office. I wouldn't know since she's the only one I've ever been to. I always find myself staring at a Thomas Kinkaid painting of a snowy cottage scene on Christmas Eve that hangs on the wall.
