— Rememberable. Salmon walls with green floral prints, a few books, purely decorative flowers in the center of the table, the only physical barrier between you and your psychologist. You noticed this every time you went to that clinic.

Paid consultations with a psychologist? Mental health checks? That was a novelty where you work. All employees should start seeing a psychologist, that's the only way you'll even get to see one.

Your boss started insisting that you should go. Being a walking stereotype—that is, very quiet, not going to social gatherings often, and speaking strictly only when necessary—may have been the tip he followed. Or he went too deep into your work record, but well, you didn't want to believe that someone would care so much about your history.

One way or another, you went. The first appointment was a mix of nerves, being your first appointment ever. But that wasn't what made you so hesitant, and that definitely didn't please you.

It was your psychologist, Charles Starling. Not that you knew the most about psychology, but that impassive, cold expression of his replaced the 'neutral-understanding' one which was the usual. To avoid an awkward silence, you opened up a little. Hiding the truth about how you really felt? Yes, but it was better than an awkward silence.

But Charles knew. You could feel he knew. He knew you were lying.

Avoiding appointments was the best solution you found. But your boss always questioned you, and one way or another, you ended up going back. Returning to that somewhat suffocating room, tô the tea/cappuccino and to him.

He listened to you attentively, those blue eyes never leaving yours for a single second. He didn't even use the little notebook that always sat on his lap; it looked more like an ornament. He. Never. Stopped. Looking. At. You.

And you feared that when the hour and a half was over, and he said goodbye with a slight smile (the only times he smiled, actually) he would know. Let him know that you were terribly attracted to him, your psychologist. But precisely, he was a psychologist, of course he knew.

On a cold, lonely night, you were drinking in a bar, after a long shift at work. You'd been avoiding your appointments for weeks. But they came back to you, or rather, he came back to you.

Charles sat down next to you, he was... smiling. That's right, smiling. You, mortified inside, hoped he wouldn't mention the fact that you were, quite obviously, avoiding appointments (or him). And luckily for you, he didn't say anything. You just talked and drank together like normal people, not like a psychologist and a patient.

Maybe that was your worst mistake.

It was very late. He asked to drop you off at your house by car. Your other mistake: you accepted.

But it was when you parked in front of your house that the real mistake began. You should have said goodbye and left, but attraction and alcohol were stronger. Charles began a monologue about a different kind of therapy that could help you.

Sex therapy is more beneficial in practice... It was the speech in his monologue. You were kind of embarrassed for him to come into your house, so that's why he drove to his, now.

It was exactly as you imagined in the moments of your... solitary pleasure.

The robe he gave you was soft, you came out of his bathroom wrapped up in it. Charles was standing near his glass window, watching whatever it was. But he had noticed you.

“Can we begin?”