Fiction by Lucy Fox
The trouble with being a therapist is I can’t switch it off. Constantly, I’m analysing
people, trying to dissect their triggers. It makes dating difficult. I’ve found men are often on edge when they find out what I do as if over our meeting of wine and breadsticks, I’m trying to work out if they have a good relationship with their mother. So, I haven’t told Thomas.
We met on a dating app a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see him on there; he
didn’t seem like the type, but he’s exactly what I go for. We started texting, but he said he prefers to talk over the phone, so our texts turned into calls. Now, here we are, sitting opposite each other, sipping wine and sharing stories.
Over the phone, we briefly touched on the topic of work. He told me that he doesn’t work much anymore and he accepted that I didn’t want to talk about what I do either. “So, what do you do in your free time?” I ask now, leaning forward, arms uncrossed, using my body language to show how open I am to hearing him.
“I do a bit of DIY, but mostly I play golf.” He smiles, it is friendly, not leering like some men. “Are you close with your family?” He mirrors my body language.
“Oh you know, the usual story. Dad left when I was three.” My throat closes up; I take a sip of wine, savouring the bitterness of the Cabernet Sauvignon Thomas picked out for us. “I don’t know him but it’s fine. It’s been thirty years, you know? And my Mum did an amazing job of raising me and my younger brother. When you have one incredible parent, who needs a Dad?”
“Mothers are wonderful. My Mum was a fantastic woman. She stayed at home raising me, looking after my Father and the house and she liked doing it. Never complained. Women aren’t like that now.” I bristle slightly; it’s involuntary and not professional – he’s not a client, Meg – I reprimand myself, but honestly, those views! If he was my patient I would say no woman will ever live up to his Mum. Obvious Mummy issues.
Our perky waitress bounces over as I’m trying to come up with an appropriate
response, “are you guys ready to order?” She holds her pen and pad, poised. I tell her what I want, while Thomas fiddles around with his reading glasses.
“Thank goodness it’s not one of those places where you have to order on an app.”
Thomas huffs, handing the menus over. The waitress smiles and Thomas lights up, “you look just like my daughter when she was your age.”
“Oh really?” She laughs, “is this your daughter?” She turns to me and my cheeks
burn red.
“No. I’m his date.” Is that what it looks like from the outside? Like I’m having dinner
with my Dad?
“Oh I’m sorry,” she turns scarlet and runs away.
Thomas chuckles but I feel sick. I need a therapist.
Lucy Fox is an aspiring writer who likes to write from the female perspective. She will study English Literature and Creative Writing at university this September.
