The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

Evil?” I still couldn’t believe he duped me. If I had one weakness, it was Neil’s insecurities. I guarded his heart like a griffin hoarding precious treasure and he knew it.
    “I see you, even behind all the B.S posturing, you know that, right?” The way his green eyes seemed to drink in my features, made me feel like the most desirable woman alive. Sure, somewhere in my head I knew my apple cheeks were bright pink from the cold, my lips chapped and my hair a fly-away mess. But I also knew Neil saw beyond all that. He was hatless, despite the freezing temperatures and the vicious wind tussled his golden-brown locks.
    “Yes, I do know that. But I’m still gonna beat you down when you least suspect.”
    Neil kissed my cheek and took my gloved hand, leading us into the maw of the building. “Sounds like a date to me.”

    * * * *
    Doctor Robert Ludlum, “call me Bob,” greeted me with a wimpy handshake reminiscent of a dead herring which he followed with a pointed glance at the office wall clock. True, we were a few minutes late, but the outer office stood empty. Neil shucked his coat and helped me doff my battered parka while introductions were made. An awkward silence ensued, broken only by the ticking of his Wal-Mart plastic clock. I’d seen it on sale last week for $9.99 and was relieved, in retrospect, to have bypassed the deal.
    A quick glance around revealed a few ladder-backed chairs and a worn copy of the DSM IV on an elegant coffee table. The reception desk was empty, save for an appointment book and a few pens. No computer or telephone, but since it was the portable digital age, perhaps his assistant carried a laptop and cell phone to lunch with her.
    Useless prattling is my forte and I turned to the psychiatrist. “So Bob—”
    “That’s Dr. Bob,” The marriage counselor chided and pushed his taped glasses further up the bridge of his pointy beak. Sporting a navy sweater-vest over a powder blue button-down shirt, pleated khaki’s and penny loafers, he looked like Fred Rogers’s long lost brother. Though I couldn’t see his socks I would have bet my car that they were paisley.
    “Dr. Bob,” I smiled and stifled the urge to crack my knuckles. If I’d invested the requisite time in earning a PH.D I’d probably insist on being called Doctor, too. “Are we ready to start, or what?”
    Neil covered his chuckle with a cough. Waiting doesn’t bother Neil. He’d told me he’d once spent four days still as a statue, waiting for a terrorist guerilla group to move on. He and one of his SEAL teammates had been pinned down and after running out of MRE’s—meals ready to eat which isn’t exactly gourmet dining, were forced to live off the native insects that happened to crawl within grabbing reach. They used hand signals to communicate with each other. Neil had the market cornered in patience.
    Dr. Bob scowled at me. “Are you in a hurry Mrs. Phillips?”
    “No, I just thought—”
    “Highways are not built overnight, Mrs. Phillips. The same is true for thoroughfares of communication. Rushing either is a waste of time and resources.”
    I cringed a bit. Waste is a four letter word to me, something to be avoided at all costs. Still, standing here engaging in a staring contest didn’t seem especially productive either, but no doubt Dr. Bob had already picked me out as the troublemaker so I kept my mouth shut.
    Dr. Bob cleared his throat. “I like to start all my sessions with new couples with some one-on-one time. It’s important for me know you as individuals first before we can begin working on your relationship. After all, a person in a marriage is only as content as the least happy person in the relationship. Since I’ve spoken with Mr. Phillips over the phone, I think we should start with Mrs. Phillips.”
    Yippie. I suppressed my heel clicking and followed Dr. Bob into his inner sanctum.
    “Please close the door Mrs. Phillips. This is a confidential session.”
    I glanced out into the waiting area but Neil had whipped out his cell phone and settled back on one of the chairs, so he missed my grimace. Sighing softly, I closed the door with a final sounding click.
    “Tell me about yourself, please Mrs. Phillips.” Dr. Bob sat behind his desk, fingers steepled in front of him.
    “Well Neil and I have been married for ten years—” My voice cut off at his raised hand.
    “You, Mrs. Phillips. I’m sure you have an identity away from your husband.”
    Did he just smirk at me? I