If I See You Again Tomorrow by Robbie Couch

Ramplewood, I’ve enjoyed my visits with Ms. An immovable gray crown of hair rests atop her head, and sparkly earrings shaped like ice cream cones dangle on the outside of her gargantuan glasses, which look like they were custom made for a beach ball with eyes-not a shrinking sixtysomething-year-old (though, somehow, they suit her.) Hazel, dwarfed in a waffle-knit sweater and yellow scarf despite the late-summer heat, is an extension of the elaborate room she’s spent decades curating. It may be a minimalist’s nightmare, but I could tell, even during our first session, that the room’s noisiness strangely helps in quieting my mind.Īnd Ms. Faded floral wallpaper is hardly visible between rows and rows of shelves housing worn books and broken trinkets, and there are enough crookedly hung photos to sufficiently fill the interior of an office ten times larger than the one we’re in. We’re sitting in identical brown-leather chairs separated by a coffee table covered in ancient psychology magazines, candy dishes to feed her self-diagnosed sugar addiction, and discolored rings from decades of coaster-less drinks. Hazel’s has a real Museum Collector Meets Amateur Hoarder energy, and for whatever reason, I dig it.

Ramplewood follow his true calling and become a haunted house tour guide.īut Ms.

If he ever quits being a therapist-and he really should-I’d suggest Mr. Ramplewood had chronically bloodshot eyes and only wore gray, which matched the vibes of his dreary, water-damaged basement clinic. I quit after our first session, not because I don’t want my therapist to have wrinkles, but because I appreciate chairs. He had deep wrinkles carved into his face, like the cracked hardwood floor he insisted I sit on cross-legged and shoeless. You know how they say people look like their dogs? I think therapists look like their offices, and a therapist’s office can tell you a lot. Oddly enough, it started with her office. “It’s not terrific that you’re lonely,” she clarifies, shattering the caramel between her teeth. “I don’t know if I’d consider it terrific.” She pops the candy into her mouth, smiling. Hazel pauses from unwrapping her caramel hard candy to offer her full attention. But still, it’s going to be strange admitting this out loud for the first time. Hazel (she’s heard it all by now), and nothing matters anymore anyway. I’M ABOUT TO TELL MY therapist something that I’ve never told anyone before.

If I See You Again Tomorrow by Robbie Couch