I nodded. “Can you tell me a bit about how you’ve been feeling?” she said.
Her smile had assumed a slightly fixed quality. “I’ve been feeling a bit sad, I suppose,” I said.
I stared at her shoes. They resembled golf shoes, only without spikes. They were gold. Unbelievable.
“How long have you been feeling sad, Ele— Miss Oliphant?” She tapped her enormous teeth with her pen.
“Actually, would you mind if I called you Eleanor? It would just, you know, help the discussion flow a bit more freely
if we were both on first-name terms, I think. Would that be OK?” She smiled.
“I prefer Miss Oliphant, but yes, I suppose so,” I said graciously.
Titles were better, though. I didn’t know her from Adam, after all.
She wasn’t my friend; she was someone who was being paid to interact with me.
A bit of professional distance is highly appropriate, I feel, when, for example, a stranger is examining the back of your eyeballs for tumors,
or rooting around in your dentin with a hooked instrument.
Or, indeed, poking around in your brain, dragging out your feelings and letting them sit there in the room, in all their shameful awfulness.
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