I check my diary, noting a two-hour break. Anna Wú’s earlier message left with my receptionist, adding yet another cancellation to my day. I could have gone for a run, I think, feeling irked, or boiled an egg. Or maybe read the papers and stayed in bed, Monica’s warm, slow breath sweeping across my back.
Irritated, I make my way to the kitchenette and feed the French press four scoops of strong Colombian, wondering what to do with myself. Read? Catch up on my supervision notes? Call Mohsin?
Relax, I tell myself, enjoy the time, some peace and quiet.
Suddenly an image of Alexa—sick in bed—takes up space in my brain. I picture her asleep. Her leg resting on top of velvety sheets, toes painted red. White cotton pajamas? I wonder. Or a delicate silk slip? I quickly dismiss the scene from my mind.
Running the tap, I squeeze some dish soap inside the mugs, allowing them to soak before finally deciding to call Monica.
“I’ve had a cancellation,” I say.
“Oh. Is that good?” she answers, voice laced with sleep.
“It’s neither good or bad,” I say, “I thought I’d just call you.”
I imagine her stretching, a yawn. The cotton duvet pulled tight to her chest.
She clears her throat.
“Was it your eight a.m.?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Ah, the pretty one,” she says.
“She called in sick, or rather, her stepmother did. Strange call. I imagined her more timid. Alexa’s always painted her as a rather passive, quiet person. She thanked me for looking after Alexa, said that things at home had improved since she’d been coming to therapy. Rather assertive. Anyway, Alexa’s ill, unable to make her session,” I reveal, aware my confidentiality is in breach. My voice is sharp and defensive.
“So, she’s in bed too,” Monica adds.
A pause.
“Dinner tonight?” I distract, uncomfortable with Monica’s suggestion. The image it re-creates.
“Why not?”
“I fancy a steak,” I say.
“With mashed potato,” she adds, her enthusiasm sent down the line.
“I’ll be home around seven.”
“Seven is good.”
“Good. Good.”
Silence.
“By the way,” she whispers, “you’re hopeless at disguising your thoughts. Just so you know.”
I place the receiver in its cradle, exposed and embarrassed. The notion that Monica might think me unprofessional causing me to fret. I notice my palms moistening, a slight tremor in my chest. Did I not divert the conversation away smoothly enough to avoid this kind of disclosure? Personal. Ethical. Both equally suspect when it comes to discussing one’s patients—particularly when they’re pretty. I walk toward the now-boiled kettle and pour its contents into the French press. The thick, sludgy brown liquid pressed down hard with my palm. Contain it, I think. Don’t let it percolate. Don’t let it stir. Left for too long it might turn unpalatable.