Waiting room

This morning in the head-lady’s office, a young guy walked in with a dunkin donuts coffee, he smelled like expensive generic cologne and looked like he walked out of a ralph lauren ad with the white sailor shoes and the cream-colored wind breaker. He seemed too happy to be seeing a therapist and he wondered out loud if he had the wrong appointment because I was sitting there too. There are two therapists in this office, I told him, not that I had ever seen the other one until earlier that morning, but I wondered if he was new or how he didn’t notice the two doors to two separate offices in the hallway or two names on the door.

“So how’s it going?” he asked.

“Um…pretty good.” Life is candy and rainbows, thanks for asking.

“Yeah, I can’t complain.”

Then what are you doing here?  I didn’t actually say that, naturally, I just watched him pick up a Travel Golf magazine, take a sip of coffee and stand up to greet his therapist like an old friend when his name was called. Clearly he’d been here before. What number personality was that?

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