Lancelot Freud was running exactly on time for this morning's therapy session. He parked his rainbow flagged car and came walking up the steps to the office building at exactly 8:00. I was too busy noticing how he was all dressed up and wearing a blazer to pay too much attention to how he was carrying his briefcase and a coffee and balancing both of them in his left hand to bend over to pick up the newspaper sitting on the porch. Holding all of those things in his left hand proved to be too much because as he attempted to unlock the front door the coffee cup fell out of his hand and crashed onto the welcome mat, his coffee dripped down the stairs.

"Uh-oh," I said, hoping that that my therapist wasn't prone to outbursts when deprived of his morning coffee. Lance checked his pants, "well, I guess that was to be expected" he said as we both bent down to pick up the coffee cup and lid, which ended up on opposite sides of the porch. We walked silently up the stairs to his office and I stood in his waiting area while he turned on all of the lights and the white noise machine. "I'll just be a moment," he said as he walked into his office and closed the door behind him.

I sat down and imagined him yelling behind the shield of the white noise, overturning his office chairs, crashing his vase of yellow daffofils to the floor. Just as Lance-in-my-head removed his tie and wrapped it around his head like a sweatband and ripped open his shirt shouting "MY COFFEEEEEEEEE!!!!" real-life-Lance opened his office door, smiling, "Okay Alana, come on in."