Page 34 of Look, Don't Touch

Of course, I remember. “It didn’t used to be mine either.” I drop my pen and plaster my hand over my mouth.

Why did I say that?

“And now?” he rasps. It pulls me in closer to the screen.

“I get eight hours every night.” Unless I’m worried about you. “Nine on Saturdays.”

“How?” There’s shock and a hint of desperation in his voice.

“A healthy exercise routine. Meditation. No screens two hours before bed. A cup of herbal tea.” I lift my hand in a defensive gesture even though he can’t see it. “I know. I sound like someone’s grandmother.”

“You said it, not me.” He chuckles slightly. “That’s all I have to do, and I’ll be able to sleep?”

“Years of therapy and working through my shit probably have a lot to do with it as well. That, and an orgasm or three before lights out.”

“Hmm.” The smooth purr lights my seat on fire. It makes me need Crave, and my option one, and his delicious mmms and hmms.

My fingers clutch into fists. This is too much like a phone call with a boy and too little like a professional therapy session. I’ve recommended orgasms before bed to many clients. None of those times made me feel like stripping down and working on one of my own.

I grit my teeth and breathe through the inappropriateness of my actions, then do the only thing I can without drawing more attention to it. Move on.

“Mr. Judge, tell me, when are you most comfortable in your daily life.”

Releasing my fists, I grab the arms of my desk chair and straighten in my seat. I pull in a deep breath through my nose, hold it for as long as I can, then set it free. Still, my patient is quiet. I give him time to think while I try to collect myself. Anticipation of his answer pings around my brain. I’m sure he’ll talk about some time at home. Maybe when he’s alone in bed.

“It’s a toss-up. When I’m at work and things are going to hell. There are proverbial fires everywhere. Everything is dire, and the needs are immediate. Or when I’m boxing. Depends on the day, I suppose.”

My eyes go wide. Images of a man I’ve only seen in pictures but am probably too aware of his breadth and height, fighting and sweating and bleeding make me swallow hard.

“Boxing is touching,” I counter.

“Boxing is hitting.”

Uselessly, my mouth opens and closes. No sound escapes.

“Besides, I wear gloves.”

“Then why were your knuckles busted last week?” I find myself leaning forward, hovering over the keyboard.

“From punching my wall.”

“Why did you punch your wall?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Venting,” he hedges.

Then I remember the woman. The reason he’s coming to therapy. The reason he wants to get better. I push myself against the back of my chair and try my best to recalibrate my stupid hormones.

I’m thankful for the woman. She’ll keep my body in check until I can handle it myself.

“How often do you box?”

“Train daily and go rounds once or twice a week. Well, I did until my therapist told me to cut back.”

My professional nod presents itself for no one at all. “That’s your exercise? How many holes are in your walls?”

He sighs. “One.”

“One a week?”

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