I didn't realize this before, but there was some sort of air freshener in the therapy room. It smelled like green tea, or something oriental and herbaly at least. I didn't know what made me so aware of my surroundings, perhaps the fact I'd spent the way there looking around my shoulder every couple minutes for the sign of the police. What were they thinking, anyway?

Stephanie was sitting in front of me in her armchair, in what seemed like a pose that's a bit too confident, even for a psychologist with diplomas neatly hanging in front of the entrance to her office. She let her hair down and had her legs crossed, keeping her hands on her right knee, sometimes picking up a notebook from her lap to jot down a note. She would eye me as I sat on her couch, but not in the way a doctor would eye a difficult patient. I allowed the silence to linger, listening patiently as the occasionally quietly ticking clock on her desk measured out the seconds. For a brief while we were engaged in a stare-off as she squinted her eyes ever so slighty, then tilted her head and finally licked her lips. She had been acting this way since the moment we shook hands again as I entered the room. Having scrutinized me up and down, then up again, she blinked rapidly and shook her head, as if suddenly aware of what she was doing. Having cleared her throat, she sat up.

"Anything you want to tell me, Matt?" she asked with a typical kind but inquisitive tone. "Something on your mind?"

"Your clothes, for sure," I replied.

Stephanie smiled politely and averted her eyes for a moment. She was wearing an unusually short mini skirt that tightly wrapped around her behind and, from my position, allowed me to have a view of almost the entire length of her legs. The jacket she was wearing previously has been replaced with a very tight version, one that unusually pushed her breasts up and out through the v-neck of her white, buttoned shirt.

"I'm glad you're in good humor today," she said with that same placid tone you always imagine therapists talk in.

"Yeah," I quipped back, "I'm really glad your receptionist rescheduled my next visit. Feels good to be bumped up the waiting list."

Stephie cleared her throat again.

"Well, we sometimes do have people cancel appointments, and your case is... warranting of more... attention..." her voice started trailing off, but picked up as she perked up again. "In my professional opinion!"

"Oh?" I said.

"Well, yes. You see Matt," she leaned forward a bit, "I believe you're showing some... Troubling signs that might point at a disorder, and we need to rule that out..."

"A disorder?" I kept inquiring.

Stephie sighed and smiled.

"I'm sorry, that might have sounded too harsh. But it's fine, Matt! Most people struggle with their mental health at one point, and I'm here to help!"

"Is that why you're wearing that skirt?" I said and smirked, enjoying my new-found confidence.

Stephanie smiled at me again and slightly shook her head.

"You see, those remarks? I think they warrant some attention, and I would like to help us figure out where they come from," she said, calmly.

"You mean you don't know?"

"I want you to tell me in your own words."

"How about you start telling me about that tight-fit?"

"I'm sorry, Matt," she insisted, "but there's only one way these meetings can go, and while I appreciate wit in dialogue, I need you to answer some of my questions if you want me to help you."

"Help me...?" I asked and Stephie nodded.

I reached out my hand.

"Let's make it a deal. I answer one question, you answer one."

Stephanie sighed. "No, Matt, I'm afraid I can't make these sorts of deal-"

"I'm acting this way because you look hot," I cut her off, withdrawing my hand.

With another polite smile and a head shake, she took some notes.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Now your turn. You can't be older than twenty five, right?"

"Haha, thank you for the kindness, Matt, you seem to have an eye for age, but," she clicked her pen, "we should focus on you here. Can you remember how old you were when you started interacting with women?"

I took a pause to think.

"Must have been around high school... it was very one-sided, though," I said and smiled back at her, then nodded. "How the things have changed."

"I see," she ignored my smile. "Would you say that lack of attention felt personal? Like an insult?"

I leaned back in my couch. "Nah, I think I instinctively knew it wouldn't work," I paused while she scribbled something down, waiting until she looked back up at me, "but we can dream, can't we?"

"Indeed, how abo-"

"How do you manage your sexual frustration?"

Stephanie made a sound stuck firmly between a gasp and a snort.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, one eybrow raised.

"I mean, I suppose you pleasure yourself," I said. "When?"

As I was saying these things, I felt my hand wanting to move towards my mouth—some instinctive desire to censor myself—but I stopped it at just the right height to look as if I was scratching my chest. Stephanie breathed out through her nose and shook her head.

"I don't think that's appropriate to talk about, Matt. It's not relevant to the therapy. To you."

"Oh, but it is," I said. "Since you were thinking about me, when you did it."

I had no clue how I came up with that line—my words seemed to be running their own track, separate of my consciousness. Anyone who's ever had a premonition knows how it feels. You are walking down the sidewalk and feel, before you know, that you'll see a specific person you know when you turn around—and there they are. It was the same feeling. Stephanie breathed out and giggled nervously.

"That's very bold of you to think, Matt. Do you fantasize about those things?"

"About you? Sure."

She nervously giggled again and shuffled a bit in the chair.

"I meant in general, but good to know. I would like to change the topic for a moment," she said.

"Getting too turned on?"

This time she shook her head much more assertively.

"No, Matt, listen. I am a mental health professional. Making those jabs at me isn't going to help you or me. I'm not impressed," her sentences were unusually harsh-sounding. She took a breath and said, "You came to me for advice, for help, right?"

"Yes, and you will help me," I said. Why did I choose "will"?

"Only if you cooperate."

We stared at each other for a while, and Stephanie seemed unusually fidgety. She readjusted her shirt collar, then her glasses, and kept on looking at me. I returned the gaze, enjoying the look of her heavy eyelashes. Finally, she took a deep breath and shuffled again, this time sluggishly switching the leg order.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" I said, following her movements.

"Why do you think?" she returned the question.

"Because you haven't had a good time in a long, long time?"

"For the last time, Matt," she said and crossed her arms, raising her head up slightly. "I don't want to do sexy talk with you."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrow. "Is that why you're not wearing panties?"