He stares at the wall beside the door as if maybe, if he were to look long and hard enough, he could make out what is on the other side. The room is mostly still and silent except for the irritating monotonous ticking of the timer resting alone on the end table beside her chair.

           He has been like this for nearly half an hour. It is the first time he has come to see her and not said anything, but hello. While she should consider this behaviour odd, she does not care. She has not spoken since greeting him half an hour earlier. She assumes that he has broken off his wedding, or has quit his job, since those are what he used to talk about the most. The curiosity she ignores is stifled by his silence.

           The sound of rustling synthetic fabric overlaps the steady beat of the timer. He crosses his foot over his knee, shifting his weight on the chair. She watches him watch the wall and suddenly feels ridiculous. The heat of anger rises in her chest and under arms, yet her expression remains calm and open. She used to offer genuine smiles, displaying a sincerity that she often practiced in front of the mirror before going to sleep. She assumes that he has not noticed her decline in interest. People like him do not often bother taking note of changes in the environment outside a one foot radius of themselves.

           "Was that hard to get?" He asks. His voice sounds strange and she briefly considers that he might just be talking to himself. Instead of entertaining this thought by remaining silent, she turns her body in the chair to see the that he is referring to. She can feel the heat in her armpits grow warmer out of nerves rather than anger this time. Her thoughts tumble over themselves as she ponders for an explanation. Since she is not treating herself, there is no need to answer truthfully, for to do so would be professional suicide. She likes the notion of money in the bank and withholds the negative answer he is probably not expecting.

           "Yes, it was," she replies simply. So hard in fact, that she remembers having to go to the office supplies store across the street to buy more ink for the printer; more ink and Manila paper. She observes him carefully now, looking at his forehead in nearly the same way he had been staring purposefully at the wall. Maybe if she stares long and hard enough, she will be able to see the wheels turning in his brain. Maybe if she suddenly discovers she has a telekinetic talent, she could stop the wheels, get her money, and send this troubled young man on his way with no more questions asked.

           "What university did you graduate from again?" He inquires slowly. His eyes are still glued to the wall and, as she has discovered, the elaborately decorated diploma. He is squinting and she knows he is trying to read what the fanciful calligraphy at the top of it says. She blurts the first name that formulates at the tip of her tongue:

           "Yale," and she wonders if maybe this was a mistake.

           "Oh," he murmurs. Relief washes over her as she exhales slowly so as not to draw attention to the fact the she has been holding her breath. "It doesn't say Yale," he adds and she can feel the sweat start to accumulate at her hairline. Fate decides that she has been tortured enough however and the timer chimes brightly. The room is truly silent for a moment.

           "Well, our time is up," she says quickly, feeling uncomfortable and awkward as she stands to shake his hand. She plasters one of her sincere smiles onto her face, praying to whichever God might be listening that it does not look forced. He grunts and stands, shaking her hand and walking past her towards the door. She follows, feeling anxious now, like a small child itching to go to the bathroom, but not being able to because she has too many winter clothes on. He turns as he steps through the doorway, facing her and looking hopeful. She cannot begin to imagine why.

           "Same time next week?" He asks and her smile takes on a regretful quality. The rest comes so naturally for she is an accomplished actress and a most practiced liar.

           "I don't think you should come see me anymore, taking this session into account, it doesn't look like you need me," she tells him, sounding both thoughtful and considerate, which is hard to do when trying to save your own ass. His face falls, but he does not seem to want to argue. She is the trained professional and so he must accept her words for truth without question. He nods and mutters what might have been either a 'goodbye' or 'okay' and then turns back to the empty hall and the outside world.

           She closes the door and walks back to her chair, sitting down slowly and leaning back. She stares at the wall opposite her false diploma and presses down on the timer beside her. The ticking commences and she closes her eyes, wondering how fast she could move out of that office and somewhere completely different. California sounds nice, she thinks as she grins, lots of unhappy celebrities just aching for a good psychiatrist. They don't much care for valid credentials as long as the job is done. The ticking of the timer oddly lulls her to sleep and her dreams are littered with dollar bills, shining smiles and the internet site which she graduated from.