Page 2 of Look, Don't Touch

Then again, we all have our vices.

I hurry to my chair, gently tossing the digital notebook onto my desk several feet away, and then heave the thick leather monster off the floor, ensuring good form. The last thing I need is to pull a muscle and have this man find me writhing on the floor. He’d never come back. That he is here, seeking help, makes me want to jump up and down, throw my hands in the air, and cheer.

For many people, admitting they need assistance is the hardest part of therapy. The first few sessions are the most important by far.

Using a shuffle maneuver, I turn the chair one-hundred-eighty degrees to face the wall of windows overlooking Central Park, on Fifth freaking Avenue, just a few blocks from The Plaza. It is a dream come true. One I don’t take much time to appreciate. I’m too busy with all the work it takes to maintain the dream. Not a monetary necessity. A mental one.

I set the chair down, sit, draw a cleansing breath, and wait for the sound of the door. A few moments pass in silence, save for my thundering heart. I haven’t been this excited for a client in a long time. I catch myself fiddling with my skirt and blouse, then primping my hair and stop my hands immediately. My shoulders straighten, and I lift my chin.

The gentlest click and shift of air are the only hints that Mr. Judge is in the room. He remains quiet and stays by the door.

“Traditionally, I would greet a client at the door, usher them into my space, and offer them a seat before taking mine. It is a ritual that begins the trust-building process. Had I done the same for you, it would’ve put the start of our trust-building marathon in a quarry. Rocky footing and steep sides.” I motion to the chair that’s a coffee table and a few more feet behind me. “Feel free to take a seat whenever you’re ready.”

“Unique…approach.”

Unique voice.

The tone is gravelly and quiet. As though it’s not often used or perhaps has suffered a physical trauma. It reminds me of a ghost, wisping about an abandoned house that hasn’t been a home in far too long. A hint of an accent is camouflaged beneath dusty drapes.

“You’ve been to other therapists,” I surmise.

“Of my own free will, no.”

I hide my cringe, mostly because I’m facing the window, and I manage to keep it on my face and out of my shoulders. Parents often have the best of intentions, sending their kids to therapy. Sometimes, if not handled properly, it only exacerbates the issues. Especially when it’s against their will.

“Since you are a grown man who’s managed to stay out of prison and psychiatric facilities, I assume you’re here of your own free will.”

“I managed.” The bite in his voice wasn’t there a moment ago. “Yes.”

“Wonderful. Those who seek therapy to appease others waste their money and my time.” I clear my throat. “How many were you forced to endure?”

“Two therapists. Two sessions each.” He hasn’t moved into the room any farther. The need to challenge him takes hold.

“Then our first goal is to get through three sessions.” I don’t give him a chance to accept or deny the goal. Just leave it in the ether. “My assistant informed me that you have an aversion to physical touch. Both giving and receiving, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“An aversion to physical touch is usually not based on the action of feeling another’s skin or hair or vice versa. It’s based on a lack of trust. Therefore, I will try my best to build trust in you and, in turn, allow you to build trust in me. As a safety precaution, I run background checks on all my clients before scheduling our first meeting. As a demonstration of the trust I’m placing in you, I will face the window as long as it takes for you to place a bit of trust in me. If, at any point, you would like me to turn around, let me know.”

“Understood.” His word came from closer in the room than the last, though I hadn’t heard him move.

A thrill unspools, falling like a curled ribbon and bouncing in my belly. I tamp it down. This isn’t the time, and it most certainly is not the place.

“Due to unforeseen events, I was not able to review the intake form you submitted.”

“I turned it in three weeks ago.” There’s a hint of power behind his thin voice. No nonsense. That, I can appreciate.

“Had I read it weeks ago, I’d have forgotten it by now. I blocked off the first part of my morning to read through it. Like I said earlier?—”

“Unforeseen events.” He completes for me. As though I’m incompetent to do so on my own. “We can reschedule.”

“Unnecessary.” I use the term for his behavior as well as his comment. “In fact, it will work better this way. A baby step before we really dig in. As it were, I remember the intake questions quite well.”

“But you can’t remember the answers.”

He’s a man used to controlling those around him in every setting. Control limits his vulnerability.

“I have over three hundred clients at various stages of their journey. While I’m a quick study, I’m not a search engine. I have expertise in a specific subject matter. It is a narrow window in the endless expanse of the universe in which we live. You can either respect that or leave now.”

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