Leach
A day later, James was where he usually was on Wednesdays. His shrink's.
“It's just…everytime I look at myself now, I feel like a complete pussy…,” pounding his hands against his chest he added, “a leach!”
The man who had been intently listening as James relived his lake experience, raised a thin, gray eyebrow, “I've said it before: it's alright to admit defeat James; nobody's perfect. You needed help and got it. That's all it was.” He then reached a few feet, padded the man on his thigh twice and sat down at his big, official-looking desk.
Both men sat in silence; James rubbed his chin, coarse with stubble, his shrink moved the gold name-plate with the words, “Dr. Eisenberg” closer to the edge nearest his patient.
James, with a certain wise tone he reserved for such arguments, finally said, “It's not about being perfect…it's about–“
“Time.” Eisenberg pressed down on his gold watch, locked his fingers, and turned his hands to a repentant slant.
“Fucking great,” James said. He rocked his upper half up from the long, inclined leather couch and sat on it sideways, feeling a strange feeling tingle in his gut.
“Now James–“
“Now what? I pay you good, goddamned money and you do this every week, you asshole.”
“I have appointments that follow you, James. I must see them too.”
“Fuck you. Fuck this. I'm not wastin' my time with you.”
“Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” Eisenberg unlocked his thick fingers and evenly set his palms on the shiny, mahogany desk. James' eyes met his shrink's and each pair locked; these two men fought a battle only men know best.
But as fate would have it, the shrink won. The fatty folds of Eisenberg's forehead pinched and arched and like a newborn deer, James broke the staredown and shakily stood up. As his first step landed, anger welled through his bandaged knee. He hobbled towards the big, oak door and stood for only a second perhaps, but then, James Redman had the first fit in his life. He set himself squarely in front of the door and pulled his arm back as far as his cane would let him. As the shrink saw it coming and darted from his desk to stop him, James heaved an angry fist at the glass engraved, “Jacob Eisenberg, Ph.D. Geriatric Psycology,” shattering the door into pieces, deeply cutting his already swathed wrists.