Closed for Sinful Whispers
I looked around the room again and rolled my eyes. Had I really let myself get pushed into this?
I supposed as doctor's waiting rooms went, it wasn't too bad. No silly cartoon tooth posters extolling the virtues of flossing. No cavalcade of coughing toddlers. The magazines on the table were only two months out of date. Even the receptionist was kinda cute.
Still, I missed the fish tank. Dr. Saunders (my pediatrician growing up) had this massive tropical fish tank in the waiting room. I always loved that as a kid. But I suppose when you were old enough to see a psychiatrist, you weren't supposed to need bright, colorful fish to distract you. I frowned and turned back to the copy of Popular Science.
A door past the receptionist's desk opened. A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit exited. She spoke quietly with the receptionist for a minute, then crossed in front of me to the main entrance. After the door closed behind her, the quiet resumed.
"Mr. Trask?" The receptionist smiled at me from her desk when I looked up. "The doctor will see you now."
That was another new one. Though my height now topped 6 feet and my voice now had a bass rumble, I wasn't used to adults addressing me formally by last name. Most of them called me by my first name: Jacob. The only difference was my coaches, to whom I was simply Trask - no Mister, just Trask.
I was again glad I'd convinced Mom not to come. The receptionist was cute enough that I didn't want to seem like a kid who still needed his mommy to take him to the doctor. "I'm old enough to drive, I'm old enough to go see some stupid shrink by myself!" I'd argued till she relented.
Of course, this was all a waste of time. Sure, I had problems. But who didn't? And it wasn't like these problems were just in my head. My parents' imminent divorce wasn't a figment of my imagination. I hadn't hallucinated Billy Peterson's left fist giving me a black eye or Principal Birdsong giving us both in-school suspension for fighting. But talking about any of it wasn't going to fix any of that.
I entered the inner door and found myself in a plush little office. A few well-padded, high-backed chairs formed a small semicircle with one of those armless couch things. Back in a corner stood a dainty wooden desk topped with a couple neat stacks of paper, a few photo frames, a jar of pens, and various other office desk-y things.
One of the nice chairs was occupied by a woman. Her dark hair was bound up in a sensible bun and she wore very simple earrings and light makeup. Not that she really needed it; the receptionist was cute, but apparently the doctor was stone cold gorgeous.
She was also incredibly fat. Or at least, that was my initial impression at seeing the huge swell of her gut against the white blouse beneath her dark suit jacket. But after a few seconds more, I realized I was wrong. She wasn't fat; aside from that big gut and bosom, the rest of her frame appeared to be rather slender. I revised my initial assessment; she wasn't fat - just very pregnant.
Hi," I began with some uncertainty; I had no idea how a session with a psychiatrist was supposed to work. "I'm Jacob Trask."
I looked around the room again and rolled my eyes. Had I really let myself get pushed into this?
I supposed as doctor's waiting rooms went, it wasn't too bad. No silly cartoon tooth posters extolling the virtues of flossing. No cavalcade of coughing toddlers. The magazines on the table were only two months out of date. Even the receptionist was kinda cute.
Still, I missed the fish tank. Dr. Saunders (my pediatrician growing up) had this massive tropical fish tank in the waiting room. I always loved that as a kid. But I suppose when you were old enough to see a psychiatrist, you weren't supposed to need bright, colorful fish to distract you. I frowned and turned back to the copy of Popular Science.
A door past the receptionist's desk opened. A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit exited. She spoke quietly with the receptionist for a minute, then crossed in front of me to the main entrance. After the door closed behind her, the quiet resumed.
"Mr. Trask?" The receptionist smiled at me from her desk when I looked up. "The doctor will see you now."
That was another new one. Though my height now topped 6 feet and my voice now had a bass rumble, I wasn't used to adults addressing me formally by last name. Most of them called me by my first name: Jacob. The only difference was my coaches, to whom I was simply Trask - no Mister, just Trask.
I was again glad I'd convinced Mom not to come. The receptionist was cute enough that I didn't want to seem like a kid who still needed his mommy to take him to the doctor. "I'm old enough to drive, I'm old enough to go see some stupid shrink by myself!" I'd argued till she relented.
Of course, this was all a waste of time. Sure, I had problems. But who didn't? And it wasn't like these problems were just in my head. My parents' imminent divorce wasn't a figment of my imagination. I hadn't hallucinated Billy Peterson's left fist giving me a black eye or Principal Birdsong giving us both in-school suspension for fighting. But talking about any of it wasn't going to fix any of that.
I entered the inner door and found myself in a plush little office. A few well-padded, high-backed chairs formed a small semicircle with one of those armless couch things. Back in a corner stood a dainty wooden desk topped with a couple neat stacks of paper, a few photo frames, a jar of pens, and various other office desk-y things.
One of the nice chairs was occupied by a woman. Her dark hair was bound up in a sensible bun and she wore very simple earrings and light makeup. Not that she really needed it; the receptionist was cute, but apparently the doctor was stone cold gorgeous.
She was also incredibly fat. Or at least, that was my initial impression at seeing the huge swell of her gut against the white blouse beneath her dark suit jacket. But after a few seconds more, I realized I was wrong. She wasn't fat; aside from that big gut and bosom, the rest of her frame appeared to be rather slender. I revised my initial assessment; she wasn't fat - just very pregnant.
Hi," I began with some uncertainty; I had no idea how a session with a psychiatrist was supposed to work. "I'm Jacob Trask."