The session starts off pretty normal. I knock on Dr Ambrose's door at precisely the right time, not giving away the fact that I was ten minutes early and lingering in the hall. His office is sparse and silent when I enter, the man himself already in the hard-looking chair opposite the couch–he stopped fighting that particular battle early on.
He must have sensed even then that I'd insist on the couch every week, because firstly, it's part of the therapy vibe, and secondly, I need an interrupted view of his whole body. Dr Ambrose is wasted tucked away behind a desk. He should be free, unencumbered, wandering around campus in his shirtsleeves for all the world to see.
Or folded across from me into that horrible chair. Either way, I don't want a stupid desk blocking my view.
It's a sunny d
