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“This is my husband. He doesn't want
to be here—”
“But he is, and that's good.
Talk to me.”
“I don't think we need help, is all—”
“And that's fair. So can
you say what help means?”
“Oh, you know, when young doctors who don't know—”
“Harold!”
“—who don't know our situation,
are humming and nodding, 'I see, I see.'
Having us play games from psych magazines,
when they've never been close, or ten years, in this space between.”
“I can promise you,
Harold, I'm not here to fix
or
to
call your love broken,
or to then claim it's healed.”
“Oh
doctor, don't—really, you don't have to please him.”
“You're
right: that's your place; that's
your
work—mine's to see.”
“To
see what?”
“Do
you love him? Does he
love
you—meaning treasure you, miss you;
what he's had and can have—
hard enough to
make rust break away?”
“I remember what we had.”
“Do
you, now? How was
that, at
its best?”
“It was hot.”
“Harold,
please! Doctor, I—”
“You
don't like him to
remember? To long, and desire and dream?
Isn't that why
you came?”
“No!
Of course, yes, but–but first we have
problems.
Problems;
something needs to be done.
And don't you want to
hear them—
these
problems? As our counselor?”
“Solutions
wear problems.
Tell
me dreams, not what robs them.
And
I'll see—Harold,
hot
like the sun?”
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