Therapist's Therapy Part VI

I waited.

I actually waited for our next session.

You know me, so you know that waiting is not particularly a forte of mine.

I have so many things to say, and so many questions to ask.

But then what?

What do you propose I do with the answers to said questions?

Perhaps that's why I waited. The answers hold more potential for intimidation than the man who holds the answers.

So today is my scheduled session, and I am currently in the waiting room staring at the temp receptionist, who's standing-in for Belle. He's cute in a nerdy kind of way. In fact I would have flirted had I been in the right frame of mind, however the man that currently holds my mind in the palm of his hands, has me waiting. As a matter of fact, Belle would have definitely had answers for me. But instead, she parades around Cancun, without a care in the world.

Good for her. I envy her. Not the fact that she's on vacation, but the fact that she holds not a single care in the world.

Well, I guess I don't really know that for sure, but-

"Nichelle," the temp receptionist whose name I should learn, calls my name. "The doctor will see you now."

A beautiful brunette emerges from the hallway that leads to his office...I stop my mind from wandering.

I furrow my brows at the temp guy, because the doctor usually comes and gets me himself.

He raises a brow in response to my obvious, but hopefully subtle, shock, "something wrong?" he asks.

"Yes. How did he express to you that he's ready for me?"

"He sent me a message," he answers, pointing to the computer.

"Well...What's your name?" I am so proud of me for learning the temp's name. I am such a big girl.

"It's Michael, for the third time."

Oh. I shrug, "well, Michael, if you could send him a message right back stating that I am ready for him, that'd be great."

He stares at me, unmoving, and unwilling to oblige, so I get up, waltz over to his desk, reach for his tie, and pull him nice and close to my face, "Send the message, Michael."

He nods.

I smile, releasing his tie, and putting my chin in my hand, "you smell divine."

He clears his throat, pitter-pattering away at the key board, saying "thank you," with no eye contact.

Before I know it, a door is opening and slamming shut, followed by foot steps. These footsteps hold a rather vehement purpose.

Naz takes up the doorway with his presence, physically and figuratively.

"Nichelle," he says my name with conviction, the way I like it.

"Was that so difficult?" I ask, trailing my fingers across the stubble on his chin. His eye color starts to darken again and his breathing pattern has changed-slowed down a bit. If I affect him this much, I wonder how much the mother of his child does.

I begin my saunter down the hall to his office. I feel him creep up behind me, sliding his arm around my waist as we enter his space. He takes one arm to close the door behind us, and the other to spin me around and bestow a kiss that is likely derived from both heaven and hell.

His hand slips up my shirt where he cups my breast and then graduates to tugging on my nipple; noises escape my throat, and I begin tugging on his hair. He pauses the pursuit he began on my breast to pick me up and put me on his desk, where he drags me to the edge only to grind into me.

I yank his shirt out of his pants where it was neatly tucked, and rip it open so I can have complete access to his beautiful chest. I drag my finger nails up, down and across his torso, loving his reaction, questioning if I'm the only one that makes his feel like this...

And just like that...my desires have been showered with an ice cold bucket of reality, "wait wait wait," I whisper quickly.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

I exhale, "Naz, I have questions."

He starts peppering kisses onto my neck, "I'm listening."

My eyes start closing, because it feels so good, but he knows that which means he's trying to avoid the question. Which makes me angry, so I push him off of me.

And now he stands before with a ripped shirt, a beautiful expansive chest and abs that should be illegal.

He stares at me for a bit then begins to pace, running his hands through his hair, "Okay," he concludes, "ask me." He doesn't look at me though.

"Tell me about her."

He now looks a little taken back, surprised even. "You want me to tell you about her?"

I nod.

He clears his throat, "well, she uh, she's the mother of my child-"

"Yes, we've covered that. What's she like. What's her favorite color? What kind of music does she like. Tell me about her."

"Why?"

Because I need to know if you become vulnerable when you discuss her traits. I want to see what your body does, where you mind wanders of too, and most importantly I'd like to see if I have the ability to see more of you when you discuss her.

Naz has all of the answers, but I'm not gullible enough to believe he'll volunteer them all to me, so I have to look for it. Between the lines.

I suppose it's time for a little Therapist's Therapy.

I answer his question now, shrugging, "I'm just curious."

He squints, nodding. "Well, she..." his eyes cut to me then away, "she is stubborn. She is also incredibly loving, yet not very forgiving. She has a hard exterior, but she's soft on the inside. Which is likely why she isn't very forgiving. She hurts easily so she has this incessant need to protect herself. It's a vicious cycle."

He pauses to assess my reactions, I suppose, but I nod encouraging him to proceed.

"She has an infectious laugh, and an interesting sense of humor. She doesn't like snack foods, she likes meals. Cooked meals. She will not eat anything that is remotely similar to the likes of peanut butter and jelly."

I laugh. "She's missing out," I conclude.

He smiles without teeth, agreeing with a nod. "She has a thing for jewelry, and purses. But she's okay with wearing the same shoes for the rest of her life. She has an eclectic taste when it comes to music and she absolutely loves and adores our little girl, Zaila."

He shrugs, "that's it. That's all I got for ya."

I nod.

He looks confused, "So is that it? Is that all you wanted to know?"

I glance at the clock on the wall, gazing beyond him, so he follows my gaze, and in turning back to me, the recognition settles in, "You have got to be kidding me."

I smile, "I'm afraid our time is up. Same time next week?"

He reaches for me.

"Aht aht, you will wait. And fix your shirt. That's very unprofessional."

I saunter out of his office, wishing the temp, Maxwell, a lovely evening.

"It's Michael."