“It’s like this, Dr. Rosenberg.”
“Call me Dr. Cherry.”
“Ahem. Well, ah, all right then, Dr. Cherry, it’s like this…”
“Are you comfortable, honey? I mean, are you good and comfortable?”
“Yes, now I…”
“No, no, honey. You don’t look at all good and comfortable to me. Here, lie on back down now. Let me fluff that big down pilla for ya. Because that big ole’ handsome heada yours, it doesn’t look relaxed. And you have to be relaxed in order for any therapy to actually, you know, take holda you. And make any changes, see.”
Sparky looked around at what was supposed to be the place where the stars of publishing and the shining lights of literature came to lay bare their souls, lay down their deepest and darkest thoughts, their nightmares, their tingly wishes and dreads, at the feet of the Jungian analyst par excellence, Dr. Cherry Rosenberg. But he’d had a preconceived notion quite a bit different than the reality of lying in this woman’s soft, smooth, low lit nook, reclined on a large sofa, deep berry velvet corduroy, with walls built in around it, deep beige wallpaper and track lights turned low…
And he hadn’t even gotten a word in yet, trying to tell Dr. Cherry about his trials and tribulations with his female minions, trying to tell her how much they demanded of him, how much they talked talked talked on and on and on…
He looked up at her diploma just about the time Dr. Cherry climbed up alongside him, stroking his chops with one of her soft hands.
“Uh, your middle initial. It’s S.” Sparky said.
“Why yes it is, mah darlin’,” Dr. Cherry said. “Now why don’t you just lie back and think of, of England, Sparky?”
Sparky? “But, but, I’m not English.”
Dr. Cherry smiled. “When I’m through with you, you won’t mind what you are one way or the other, my little lamb.”