Two Chairs, One Ficus

The waiting room had two chairs and a ficus, and at 4:52 on a Wednesday both chairs were taken. The man had been there first. Mid-fifties, work boots, a jacket he hadn't unzipped. The woman had come in at 4:48, looked at the chairs, looked at the ficus, and sat down with her bag on her knees like she might need to leave quickly. Neither of them said anything for four minutes. Then the door to the office didn't open at five, and it didn't open at 5:02, and the woman said, "She's running late." "She usually is." "You've been coming a while?" "Since March." "Oh." The woman adjusted the bag. "It's my first time. Well. First time here. First time anywhere, actually." The man nodded. He looked at the ficus. "Is it," she said, and stopped. "Sorry. You don't have to answer. Is it alright? Like, does it, is it worth it?" He thought about that for longer than she expected. "My daughter made me come," he said. "That's the truth of it. I wasn't going to. She booked the first one and drove me here and sat in the car park. I was in there forty minutes and I don't think I said more than ten words. Most of it was her, the therapist, asking things, and me saying 'I don't know.' I came out and my daughter said 'well?' and I said 'that was a waste of money.'" "But you came back." "I came back." "Why?" "Because on the drive home I noticed I'd said 'I don't know' about eleven times, and I thought, that's not true. I do know. I just haven't said it out loud to anyone in about thirty years." He shrugged inside the jacket. "So the second time I said it. Some of it." The office door was still shut. Somewhere behind it, muffled, a voice was winding something up. "I'm worried I'll cry," the woman said. "You might." "I don't cry. I'm not a crier." "Neither was I." She laughed, short, and looked at him properly for the first time. "You?" "Third session. Didn't see it coming. She handed me a tissue like it was nothing and just waited. Worst four minutes of my life." He almost smiled. "Best, too, probably. I'm not sure. I'm still working that out."

"What do you talk about? If that's not, sorry." "My dad, mostly. Turns out. I came in thinking it was about work." The door opened. A woman in her forties with reading glasses pushed up in her hair leaned out and said, "Sorry, sorry, Gerald, I'm running behind, five more minutes," and looked at the woman with the bag and said, "You must be Hannah. I'll be right with you both," and closed the door again. "Gerald," Hannah said. "Hannah." "It's a nice ficus." "It's fake." "Is it?" "Touch it." She leaned over and touched a leaf. "Oh. That's a bit disappointing." "It's the one thing in this building that's not going to ask you how you feel about it," Gerald said, and she laughed again, properly, and some of the grip on the bag went out of her hands. At 5:11 the door opened and Gerald went in. On his way past he said, quietly, "Ten words is fine. Ten words is a start," and then the door closed and it was Hannah and the ficus, and she sat there and waited, and did not leave.