The rain fell softly but relentlessly, as if apologizing for its own persistence. Westminster lay wrapped in gray; traffic dragged itself forward, and the Thames, murky and cold, slid beneath the bridges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the seventeenth floor of the private Ashgrove Mental & Wellness Institute, tucked among the older buildings lining the South Bank, was the office of Dr. Edward Johnson. The building\u2014modern yet deliberately unobtrusive\u2014was known for its discretion: white corridors, glass elevators, and views of a city that rarely returns a gaze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The office was modest in size. A desk. Two armchairs. Wall-mounted shelves lined with neatly arranged books on psychiatry and philosophy. In one corner, a potted plant that had been fighting for survival for months. And a single, enormous window overlooking the Thames, with St. Paul\u2019s Cathedral visible in the distance. That view was the only constant in the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Edward Johnson sat behind his desk, a notebook in his hand, his glasses clipped to the pocket of his shirt. A knock came at the door, and his secretary ushered in the patient.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood afternoon, Doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood afternoon, Mrs. Rebecca. Please, have a seat.\u201d He gestured toward the chair across from him. \u201cOr would you prefer the couch today?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca was a woman in her early forties. Impeccably dressed, her movements calm and restrained. She wore a long coat in a dark butter tone\u2014one of those garments that signals expense without announcing it. On her hands were leather gloves the color of wine, which she removed with care and placed atop her handbag: black, elegant, rigid in form, unbranded yet unmistakably refined. Everything about her suggested control\u2014deliberate, practiced, exact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her hair was long, healthy, glossy\u2014the kind washed the night before, not hastily before stepping out. Her face carried little makeup; her lips were well-shaped, faintly sardonic even at rest. Her teeth were straight and white, almost irritatingly flawless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wore no jewelry except a simple wedding band on her right hand\u2014a detail that revealed her understanding of the boundary between ornament and excess. She was beautiful. The kind of beauty not eroded by time, but sharpened by it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you don\u2019t mind,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019d rather sit today\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sat the way someone does who has done it many times before\u2014one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on her handbag, gaze fixed straight ahead. She was not seeking comfort. She was seeking his attention and his time\u2014both of which she had paid for, properly. A session with Dr. Johnson was not cheap. Not everyone could afford five hundred pounds an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course. Whatever suits you best. What would you like to talk about today?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Edward Johnson was a man in his late forties, well-proportioned, with short, carefully cut hair and a greying beard, meticulously maintained. He dressed simply: dark blue trousers, a grey blazer, and a white shirt buttoned to the second button.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat back in his armchair, his left ankle resting over his knee. In his right hand, he held a notebook; in his left, a thin black marker. He wrote his observations calmly, quietly, without haste. With the index finger of his left hand, routinely and without looking, he pressed a small button on the desk, activating the recorder. A red light flickered softly. From the very start of the session, every tone was being recorded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked directly at her. He observed her as a patient\u2014but, inevitably, also as an attractive woman. His gaze was steady, clinical. He assessed her clothing, hairstyle, jewelry, shoes. Yes, she was a beautiful, well-groomed woman, with a pleasant voice. He regarded her without excessive interest, but without indifference. He was accustomed to watching people, listening to them, analyzing them. It was his profession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson sat back in his chair, the notebook resting on his thigh. With his right hand, he wrote the date at the top of the page, beside it\u2014her name. His gaze drifted briefly from her face to the hem of her skirt, then returned calmly to her eyes. He remained silent, waiting for her to begin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca carefully crossed her legs and placed her handbag to the left of the armchair. As she removed her gloves, she laid them over the edge of the chair. Her fingers lingered on them a second longer than necessary. She lifted her eyes to him and thought that he looked particularly good today. For the past two years, she had come to him regularly for therapy, every Friday at 4:00 PM. It had become a weekly ritual through which she maintained her marriage. And herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, Rebecca\u2014what shall we talk about today? Has something specific happened that you\u2019d like to discuss?\u201d he repeated patiently, without raising his voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smoothed her skirt over her knees and shifted slightly in the chair. She stared straight ahead, but not at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAbout how the man who lives with me is turning into a complete stranger. I no longer recognize him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson made a brief note, then looked at her directly, his expression unchanged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou mean your husband?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca shook her head, almost with a hint of mockery. Her voice was slightly hoarse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m incredibly angry with him, Doctor. He lives with me. Sleeps beside me. Eats at the same table. But he isn\u2019t there. It\u2019s as if he\u2019s no longer present\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson\u2019s eyes remained on her as he lightly pressed the button on the desk once more. The recorder\u2019s red light flickered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid anything specific happen this week?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhat do you think caused this distance?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca took a deep breath. She crossed one leg over the other, gripped the armrest with her hand, brushed her fingertips against her own palm, then returned her hand to the same place. She was restless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. Nothing specific. It\u2019s always the same, every week. It always starts with a kind of eerie silence. Not a big one. Not dramatic. The small kind\u2014daily frictions. A question of mine that goes unanswered. A touch that isn\u2019t returned. His gaze sliding past me. Every day. Consistently. He doesn\u2019t notice me, Doctor. I simply don\u2019t exist for him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson wrote something briefly, then looked up. His eyes lingered on her profile for a few seconds too long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHave you tried talking to him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca gave a bitter smile, soundless. She turned her gaze toward the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have. He said it \u2018wasn\u2019t the time.\u2019 That it \u2018wasn\u2019t the right moment.\u2019 Always work. Always fatigue. Always something more important, something ahead of me, always something placed before me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She kept her eyes on the raindrops sliding down the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd then she appeared. Or they did. I don\u2019t know anymore. I don\u2019t even know when exactly it happened. She wrote to him again. I saw the message on his phone. I\u2019m certain she\u2019s his new lover.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson tightened his grip on the pen slightly, glanced at the notebook, but did not write. He only asked:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat makes you so certain?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest, leaning slightly forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSome evenings he came home smelling of a new perfume. Again.\u201dHe said he\u2019d been out to lunch with a colleague. And that very same day, I saw him getting into a taxi with a woman. A woman who was not his colleague\u2014I know that for certain\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nervously straightened the hem of her skirt and pressed her lips together. She was furious. She took a deep breath and continued.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen I asked him, \u2018Who exactly were you with?\u2019 his answer was: \u2018Work.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson lowered the notebook onto the arm of his chair. He set the pen aside. His hands folded in his lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd how does that affect you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time, Rebecca answered without hesitation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese lies are destroying me. They anger me. They hurt. But what offends me the most is that he thinks I\u2019m stupid. Why doesn\u2019t he just tell me what\u2019s going on? Why does he insult me with lies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson\u2019s voice remained unchanged. Calm. Gentle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy do you assume he\u2019s lying? And tell me\u2014do you believe you\u2019ve always been honest with him? Think about it, Rebecca.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at him then, for the first time\u2014directly into his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean by that? What are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson leaned forward slightly, his palms coming together, fingertips forming a bridge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEmotional absence. Yours, and his. Expectations that perhaps were never met. Or never voiced. Pressure. Criticism. Perhaps you began to look at him differently. Or he at you. What do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca slowly leaned back, placing her arms on the armrests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo this is my fault?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. That\u2019s not what I said. Not even close,\u201d he replied quietly, but firmly. \u201cI\u2019m saying that in situations like this, both partners bear responsibility. Not just one spouse. Emotional infidelity often occurs long before the physical.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap. Her palm trembled slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. Yes\u2014maybe I made mistakes too. Maybe I was late. I don\u2019t know anymore\u2026 I tried many times to talk to him, but I stopped. I felt it wasn\u2019t the right time. I wasn\u2019t even sure whether my suspicions were justified. This week, in particular, I felt it strongly. It\u2019s possible that the text message was the trigger for me, Doctor. You know that feeling\u2014when you don\u2019t know, but you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat gives you that conviction?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you know what I did?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI replied to that text message. Directly. Clearly\u2014in his name. I said I have a wife I love and no time for affairs. Whether that was right or not, I don\u2019t know. But I was wounded like an animal\u2014angry, and weak toward him\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo weakness justifies you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. But it explains me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca took her handbag from the chair beside her and placed it back in her lap. She gripped its edges as if trying to hold something inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson straightened slightly in his armchair, lifting himself just enough before settling back again. His voice remained dry, calmly British.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cForgive me\u2026 how long have you been married, Mrs. Rebecca?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She exhaled through her nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTwo decades. Twenty-three years, to be precise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you remember how\u2014and why\u2014you fell in love with your husband?\u201d he asked, glancing at his notes without reading them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer right away. She remembered those days when she had been deeply in love with her husband\u2014madly, in fact. She lowered her gaze and brushed an invisible thread from her stocking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI fell in love with his calmness. His sense of responsibility. With the fact that he never chased after others. He was never loud. He never tried to prove himself\u2014to anyone, least of all to me. He was always present, beside me. And he looked at me as if he understood me. As if I were the only thing he wanted in this world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo those qualities still exist in him?\u201d Johnson asked, almost mechanically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca shifted her shoulder back\u2014not as an answer, but reflexively. Her voice trembled, though she concealed it by swallowing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe. But they\u2019re buried somewhere deep. Or perhaps I no longer even look for them. I\u2019ve started noticing only what hurts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson made a brief note. His gaze slid down her left arm, catching the moment when her finger scratched at the inner edge of her handbag. He didn\u2019t comment; he simply observed her gestures.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd why do you think your husband\u2014as you put it\u2014has lost interest in you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I\u2019ve become his routine. Like a cup. A book on a shelf. A picture on the wall. I\u2019m here, and I don\u2019t move. He sees me every day. And I see him. I know what he\u2019ll say. I know when he\u2019ll yawn. I know when he\u2019ll lie. And he\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe knows I\u2019ll stay. That I\u2019ll always be here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped and looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd that doesn\u2019t worry him. Nothing about me really worries him anymore. But it doesn\u2019t excite him either. There\u2019s no romance left. No more honest conversations. No plans. No goals. No shared truths\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson sat upright, placing his palms flat on his knees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd have you ever created space for his truth?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t understand your question, Dr. Johnson. What exactly do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He replied evenly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI mean\u2014did you ever make room, and time, for him to look at you and calmly say, without conflict: \u2018I no longer know how I feel about you. I\u2019m sorry you feel this way\u2026 but I need change. I want something different. Do you? What do you feel? What do you want?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca shifted, uncomfortable now for the first time. She adjusted her skirt, crossed her legs again, one over the other. Her gaze dropped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t want to know,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cAnd I didn\u2019t want to talk about it. I was afraid of hearing it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo we can agree, then,\u201d he said evenly, \u201cthat the truth was known to you\u2014but unacceptable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a common pattern. Confrontation doesn\u2019t happen when we discover something that troubles or burdens us, but only when we can no longer pretend that we don\u2019t already know it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca turned her gaze back to the window. The sky above the city was gray, shapeless, pressed low over the rooftops of London. From this height, the street below looked narrow, as though it belonged to another world. Traffic moved slowly\u2014red and white points of cars shifting in orderly lines, pausing now and then at intersections. To the right, the river appeared, dull and uniform, sliding beneath the bridge. Through the windows of other buildings\u2014like a sequence of glass frames\u2014shadows of people at desks were visible: movements, the glow of screens. In the distance, almost like a drawing lost in mist, St. Paul\u2019s Cathedral rose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was tall and slender. Her stride was long yet gentle, almost floating, as if she moved through space without sound. She was a striking woman, beautiful in a quiet way\u2014one that does not demand attention, but lingers in memory. And yet, in her posture and in her gaze, there was something withdrawn\u2014not shy, but sad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sat in the chair opposite him. She did not lower her eyes. She sat upright, her hands folded in her lap. Only then did Dr. Johnson lift his gaze to her. She looked at him directly, without hesitation\u2014her gaze quiet, but steady. The room was completely silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you know what the worst part is, Doctor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson answered simply, calmly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca inhaled. She did not continue at once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat I still\u2026 feel something for him. When I look at him, standing there in front of me, something inside me still shifts. It isn\u2019t hatred. It isn\u2019t anger. It isn\u2019t love either\u2014at least not the kind I thought I knew how to recognize. I don\u2019t know how to describe it. But it\u2019s\u2026 something that\u2019s always here. And it won\u2019t leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRebecca,\u201d he said gently, \u201cforgive me, but I need to ask you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded once, without speaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen you say you still feel something\u2014could you try to give that word a shape? Just one word that describes your state.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer immediately. Her gaze returned from the window to him. Her hands were still in her lap, but now her fingers were interlaced. He noticed how her left thumb pressed against the nail of her right index finger\u2014a small, persistent gesture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat isn\u2019t a word,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cIt\u2019s a habit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He tilted his head slightly. The notebook remained open, the pen still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA habit,\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca looked at him. This time, directly. Her gaze did not seek approval. She had spoken the truth. The silence remained between them. It was not uncomfortable. It was a kind of unspoken agreement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd what do you think,\u201d he asked, \u201cdo you believe he feels the same way you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca didn\u2019t answer immediately. Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers rigid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA habit?\u201d she asked quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson nodded, watching her closely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t know what he feels. I don\u2019t ask him. He doesn\u2019t ask me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPerhaps you feel the same,\u201d Johnson said. \u201cYou\u2019ve simply never said it out loud\u2014to each other. But there are things that need to be recognized and separated. If it\u2019s habit, perhaps it can fade. But if there is still hope somewhere beneath all of that\u2014then it\u2019s worth examining.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She raised her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t quite understand what you mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson sat more upright, placing his palms on his knees. His tone remained unchanged, but the sentence he spoke came more slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPerhaps you\u2019re both tired. That doesn\u2019t mean you have to remain that way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca adjusted her skirt. Crossed her legs again. She stared at the glass behind him, but saw nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow does that change?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBy giving him space to speak his truth. And you, yours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTruth?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d the doctor said. \u201cSo that you can tell him: \u2018I no longer know what I feel. I need something different. I want to change something. Do you?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca lowered her gaze. Quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to be aware of that,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t want to know it. And even less do I want to say it out loud to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson remained seated, composed, the notebook already half-filled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cForgive me, Rebecca\u2026 may I ask you something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDoes your husband know\u2014is he aware\u2014that you are emotionally unfulfilled?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn other words, have you told him that directly? Without silence. Without guessing. Without codes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot in that way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow have you spoken to him about it, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWith silence. Avoidance. Expectations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd how was he supposed to understand that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf he knows me,\u201d she said, \u201cthen he knows what I\u2019m like when I\u2019m not satisfied with something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm on his knee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd is it possible that he doesn\u2019t know you in that way?\u201d he asked. \u201cOr, to put it more simply\u2014he doesn\u2019t understand that kind of language? Like ninety percent of men in this world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca looked at him briefly, then turned her gaze away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen was the last time you asked your husband a direct, clear question\u2014without any hidden meaning? Without accusation? Out of simple curiosity, perhaps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca leaned back, adjusted the handbag in her lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t remember.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you think happens to a man when he feels he\u2019s no longer interesting, no longer needed, no longer valued?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe withdraws, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOr he looks for a place where he is\u2014or could be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou mean, with another woman?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWith someone who sees him.\u201d He paused, then added quietly, \u201cSometimes a man isn\u2019t looking only for passion. He\u2019s looking for someone who believes he still matters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca tightened her hand around the handbag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo you\u2019re saying I pushed him into this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not saying you\u2019re to blame. I\u2019m saying you weren\u2019t the only participant in this breakdown.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut he\u2019s the one who cheated. He\u2019s the one who walked out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you,\u201d he said calmly, \u201cwere the one who closed the door long before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her gaze slid down the window\u2014people moving below like dots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you know what\u2019s worst, Doctor? What troubles me the most?\u201d she said quietly, her voice trembling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat troubles you exactly, Rebecca?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat our erotic life has become work. Routine. Duty. A schedule.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Johnson lowered his head slightly, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, then leaned back, watching her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd did you ever say that to your husband?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. I was sure he knew. I thought he felt the same way. That I\u2019d become boring to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd did you ever ask yourself how he feels\u2014what he wants?\u201d he continued. \u201cDid you ever consider fulfilling one of his desires\u2014or finally, Rebecca, one of yours? An erotic need, perhaps. Let\u2019s call it that\u2014reseasoning your erotic world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor instance, try doing that tonight. As an experiment. Allow yourself some imagination. Do something new. Wear new lingerie. Light candles. Invent something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, calmly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLet that be your homework until next week. Can you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca stood and slowly walked toward the window. With her fingers, she touched the frame of the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAll right, Doctor. I agree. I\u2019ll think about it,\u201d she said. \u201cI have nothing to lose\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson took the bottle of water from the table and poured himself a glass. He looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWould you like some?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you think\u2026\u201d she began, then paused, continuing softly, almost under her breath. \u201cDo you think he still loves me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson didn\u2019t interrupt her. He waited for her to finish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you think it\u2019s worth it?\u201d she added. \u201cTrying?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He set the pen aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can only tell you what I think,\u201d he said. \u201cBut what matters far more is what you would think\u2014if you were in his place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. I hope it isn\u2019t already too late\u2026\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen perhaps that is precisely where you should begin,\u201d he replied. \u201cTry looking at things from another perspective, Rebecca. It isn\u2019t that difficult. But there\u2019s something else important I should tell you\u2014something that might help you find the answer to your question: whether your husband still loves you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA man who doesn\u2019t love doesn\u2019t stay. He leaves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her gaze drifted down to the notebook on his desk. She shifted her hands, pulling them deeper into her sleeves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo you think that\u2026?\u201d she began softly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI think he still loves you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She remained calm. Hearing this mattered to her. His voice had a soothing effect, giving her strength to go on. She continued to listen to his words through the haze of emotion forming in her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRebecca, perhaps he simply doesn\u2019t know how to show it\u2014in his own way. But the feeling is there. Forgotten, suppressed, buried beneath everything else. You have to give him the opportunity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebecca nodded. Gently\u2014more to herself than to him. Then she glanced at the clock behind his shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, Doctor\u2026 time flies in your office. Is it really that late already?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson smiled faintly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI hear that often. Forty-seven minutes exactly. We\u2019ve gone a little over, but don\u2019t worry. And don\u2019t forget your homework.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She rose quickly from the chair, draped her coat over her arm, and picked up her bag. She looked at him once more, with a small, polite smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSee you next Friday\u2014at the same time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Johnson nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe same time. Four o\u2019clock.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She opened the door softly, without a sound, and stepped out with a long stride. The door closed behind her, and he remained alone, his back still lightly resting against the armchair. He didn\u2019t move right away. For a few moments, he looked at the door, then at the notebook on his desk. The page was half-filled, but he added nothing more. He placed the pen beside him on the table. With his finger, he pressed the button on the recorder and stopped the recording.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood up slowly. His movement wasn\u2019t weary\u2014more habitual. He crossed the room in a few steps, opened the door of a low cabinet, and took out a bottle of Lagavulin 16. He didn\u2019t look at the label; he knew exactly what he was taking. The glass was heavy, with a thick base. He poured a finger of whisky, closed the bottle, and returned it to its place. He remained lightly leaning against the desk, the glass in his hand, his gaze drifting resignedly toward the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bridges. Lights. Nothing new. Traffic in the distance flowed evenly. The rain had stopped, but the glass was still wet. He took a sip\u2014not so much to drink as to change the taste in his mouth, to break the silence that lingered in the room after she had left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he heard a discreet knock at the door. Twice. Softly. He didn\u2019t flinch. He simply set the glass down on the table, unhurried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome in,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door opened. His secretary stood in the doorway, a notepad in her hand. She didn\u2019t speak at once. She looked at him, as if checking whether it was the right moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDr. Johnson, would you like me to schedule your wife again for next Friday at 4:00 PM?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He glanced briefly, routinely, at the schedule.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The secretary wrote it down, nodded, and closed the door. He remained where he was. The glass was still within reach, and he extended his fingers toward it, almost thirstily. He took a long sip and inhaled deeply. THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Short story, Eva Lucas<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3147,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-2991","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-notes"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2991","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2991"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2991\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2997,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2991\/revisions\/2997"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3147"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2991"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2991"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dev.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2991"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}