A lady's voice calls from the entryway, "Available time over?"
I turn upward from my screen and grin.
Liz Hargraves is my mental partner and intermittent comrade—at the end of the day, when I need her, she's my psychologist.
"I've seen my last patient, Liz, if that is the thing that you mean. Enter and pull up a love seat."
"Try not to mind in the event that I do," she says, thudding down in my Lazy Boy seat and inclining it full back.
"You look squandered—harsh day?"
"Indeed," she grimaces, and dithers before including, "yet it isn't so much that Martin—I scarcely realize how to let you know. Is this an awful time?"
I set aside the record and remove my glasses. "This is a decent time. What's going on?"
"I'm not resting—my heart's hustling—I can't stand how I feel."
I can see the dark circles under her eyes and the dim paleness of her skin.
"Experiencing an unpleasant time?"
"It's more than that—for need of a superior word, it's peculiar."
"Truly? What's happening?"
"It's somebody I've known for quite a while—Brad May—we experienced graduate school and interned in a similar emergency clinic. We're associates—run into one another at gatherings—you know the drill."
I do the know the drill, I dream and I'm stressed.
She's bothered.
"It's senseless—I feel absurd presently I'm letting you know."
"See, you appear as though hellfire and something about this present person's bothering you, so why not simply told the truth?"
"You need me to begin toward the start?"
I gesture.
