I only remember our conversations between the pauses a tape recorder couldn’t hear. That skip of time, that could only be heard with click, contains all my memories of him.
“I think we love the story of a bird being released in its cage, or, ” The man leans back into his chair, “A story navigating what freedom lies in certain circumstances, characterized by the idea of being in a prison. It is what gives us life.”
“Why?” The boy on the other side of the desk asks.
The man’s eyes turn into something solemn. He shakes his head gently. “Because we look for it. Everyday. We all look for a way out. A way to breathe a little easier.”
The boy nods, “We want to experience it through someone who is similar to us.”
“Not only that, but” He leans forward, pressing his fingers together, as if to visually touch the words, “We delve into these stories of terror, of fear, of darker forms of prison, in hopes that the answer lies there. In those desolate conditions.”
Quiet fills the room. The boy glances down at his lap to think. “Then- then what is the answer?”
The man begins to open his mouth, before a piercing alarm fills the room. His eyes are immediately pulled toward his wrist, which he silences quickly. The boy watches as he pulls a tape recorder from under him and presses a button.
He holds a finger to his lips for a few long moments.
Then, he smiles. “Unfortunately, our session has concluded. However, your next appointment is next Wednesday at five, do you have any conflicts?”
The boy watches him as he shakes his head.
“The participant agrees.” The man leans in to say, “Session recording ended at six-fifth teen in the afternoon.”
The man promptly presses another button on his tape recorder and puts it away. Then, he leans back into the chair, smiling.
“It’s always a joy to talk with you, Max.”
When the boy asks the man if he will answer his question, the man makes a funny face, and tells him he is not sure what he means.
That is what I remember of,
The Therapist
