We’re sitting in identical brown-leather chairs separated by a coffee table covered in ancient psychology magazines, candy dishes to feed her self-diagnosed sugar addiction, and discolored rings from decades of coaster-less drinks.

Hazel’s has a real Museum Collector Meets Amateur Hoarder energy, and for whatever reason, I dig it. Ramplewood follow his true calling and become a haunted house tour guide.īut Ms. If he ever quits being a therapist-and he really should-I’d suggest Mr. Ramplewood had chronically bloodshot eyes and only wore gray, which matched the vibes of his dreary, water-damaged basement clinic. I quit after our first session, not because I don’t want my therapist to have wrinkles, but because I appreciate chairs. He had deep wrinkles carved into his face, like the cracked hardwood floor he insisted I sit on cross-legged and shoeless. You know how they say people look like their dogs? I think therapists look like their offices, and a therapist’s office can tell you a lot. Oddly enough, it started with her office. “It’s not terrific that you’re lonely,” she clarifies, shattering the caramel between her teeth. “I don’t know if I’d consider it terrific.”

She pops the candy into her mouth, smiling. Hazel pauses from unwrapping her caramel hard candy to offer her full attention. But still, it’s going to be strange admitting this out loud for the first time. Hazel (she’s heard it all by now), and nothing matters anymore anyway. I’M ABOUT TO TELL MY therapist something that I’ve never told anyone before.

If I See You First by Tia Clark