Sometimes, in couples therapy, I end up inadvertently crushing the souls of eager young couples.
To begin the initial session, the wife offers some banal reason for making the appointment; she may add how many years they’ve been married and the names of all their kids, and not even once break eye contact or pause to jog her memory. The husband punctuates her comments with a yawn and scratches the thigh of his khakis where his wife has just tried to set her hand. Their legs are crossed away from each other, and it’s February 16, but there’s no sign of new jewelry and the husband begins to twitch and stare out the window. When he lifts his arm and lovingly places it behind his wife, his wrist juts her neck forward so that intentional effort is required for her to not just stare at the floor the entire season.
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