Love not Lost

We entered the building, our hands held apart. The journey here had been long and silent, filled with frustration and exasperation. He had suggested this place, but I saw no reason for me to be here. It felt like a complete waste of time, and my anger simmered beneath the surface.

As we stepped inside, we were greeted by a cheeky front desk person. Her smile was warm, but given my current state of mind, I had no intention of being diplomatic. The counter displayed the company logo, along with a phone, pamphlet, and computer. She wore vibrant makeup, with red lip gloss and yellow smoky eye shadow, though bright colors were not to my liking lately.

Her wide smile, accentuated by a gap between her teeth, sparked my curiosity. I wondered what made her so cheerful. She smiled even more when Michael inquired about our appointment, checking her computer to confirm the details. In my presence, she dared not flirt with him. I glared at her, leaning on the counter. But my thoughts were interrupted when she directed us to the office.

"The doctor's office is on the left side," she pointed out.

"Okay, thank you," Michael replied, his voice unusually calm.

Michael opened the door, and I followed him inside. The office was painted in shades of gray and white. I stood in the doorway, taking in the surroundings. There was a bookshelf behind the door and a window blind. My eyes were drawn to a frame, displaying the words, "Today is going to be a good day."

We were greeted by a blond-haired woman in her early thirties. She stood beside a desk, engrossed in some files. She was around 5'6" tall, dressed in a loose top, fitted trousers, and covered shoes. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Thankfully, she wasn't of the opposite gender; maybe she would understand me without me having to explain.

She appeared attractive and sophisticated, curious if her transparent glasses were prescribed or bought simply just to look astute I couldn't fathom why Michael had chosen her to be our therapist. There was something about her, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. It wasn't that I fancied her.

She turned towards us and greeted us with a smile, gesturing for us to sit on a sofa. She took a seat on a pink armchair opposite us. Behind her, there was a printer, a plant, and a picture frame on a table by the window.

"Hi, my name is Angela. Can you please introduce yourselves to me?" she said, smiling briefly.

"My name is Michael Macaulay, and this is my wife, Bridget," Michael replied, while I simply looked around the room.

"How long have you guys been married?" Angela inquired.

"We've been married for over 5 years now," I answered, crossing my legs.

"So, what's the issue? Why are you guys here?"

I took a deep breath before answering the question that was thrown at me.

"There are numerous issues. I feel like Michael has changed a lot lately, and it's driving me crazy. He shares everything with others, even when I've advised him not to. For example, when we bought a property, we agreed not to tell anyone about it. But he went ahead and told his friend, which ultimately led to complications and prevented us from acquiring the property. We've had two failed IVF attempts, and I explicitly told him not to share that with anyone. But he wouldn't listen. I would later find out that he had told his sister or his careless brothers. I just feel like he jinxes us by bringing new things into our lives because he can't keep his mouth shut. Call me superstitious, but that's how I feel."

"Furthermore, he would have issues with our neighbors, and I would be furious when he came to tell me about what they did. He wouldn't talk to them anymore. But a few days later, I would see him talking to the same people he had caused issues with. I don't know who to turn to anymore."

"The last straw for me..." I paused, attempting to stop the tears from welling up. I refused to cry over spilled milk.

"The last straw was when I caught him cheating on me," I continued, my voice trembling. I sniffed, unable to hold back the tears any longer. Angela handed me a tissue.

"I caught him masturbating in the bathroom. How could he do that to me? I love seeing his expression when he's about to climax, but he had that experience without me. What should I do? Am I not good enough for him?"

As I finished speaking, I scanned the room, searching for the therapist's and my husband's reactions. Michael's face remained blank, devoid of any expression. His hands rested on his lap while Angela held a customized pen and a book, her hands slightly shaking. I had been so engrossed in my complaints that I had forgotten there were other people in the room with me.

I felt as though the therapist might think I was being paranoid. Perhaps she had already written me off as someone who couldn't make her man happy. I feared I would end up like those who came before me, unable to sustain a lasting relationship.

"Are you done talking, Mrs. Macaulay?" Angela asked, her voice calm and composed.

"Yes, I am," I replied, my voice shaky.

"Did you discuss any of these issues with him at any point?" Angela inquired, her gaze focused on Michael.

"Yes, I did," I responded, folding my hands tightly beneath my bosom.

"Mr. Michael, what do you have to say about what your wife has complained about?" Angela turned her attention to my husband, waiting for his response.