Therapist

You look straight into my head, I can't keep a secret from you. How do you do that? Are you a therapist? Sam stared at me and so did Tom.

Welcome back, I said, welcome to the 6th floor.
I bent a bit forward since leaning back is not the right thing to do if you are listening or pretending you are.

No notebook, no need to write down what I say, Sam continued.

Was he questioning me? No doodling, I said in my head, to myself, I'm not the therapist I had for over 20 years. No way.

Are you satisfied with your job, he asked. The rest showed more interest in their cup of tea and the jar with biscuits Brigit bought and brought to keep herself busy.

Pieces of biscuits, pieces, crumbles, dirty fingers, crumbles are a pain, mumbled Jane. Nervously she looked at Brigit who didn't care about cleanliness or sharing.

I can get no satisfaction, hummed Tom, hey Brigit can I get a biscuit or two? Your teeth are already bad enough. If Tom smiles he indeed looks like the lizard Brigit dreams of night after night for at least 30 years in a row. How interesting.

I'm satisfied thanks for asking Sam, I said, do you still wet your bed?
A man does what he needs to do, he replied, you know why, right? It's exhausting to get out of bed just to visit the toilet. My mattress absorbs like mad, we can test it together and see who has the best.
Hmm, Tom can't get any satisfaction, nor can Brigit or Jane can you explain how you managed that?

It is the chair, I said, change your seat and experience yourself. The thing is we all can be a therapist.

Greetings from the 6th floor.