Galatea in Counseling

Today was my first session with Ingrid and Bob. First sessions were often tricky. Some couples opened up right away. Others, like Ingrid and Bob, were nervous. They fidgeted on the sofa. Ingrid rubbed her fingers against the armrest. A common tic. Common enough that I had to replace sofas because of armrest damage quite often.

She was tall and lithe. Her long hair cascading down her shoulders in billowy white mounds. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes were ice blue, so light I almost couldn’t see them.

Bob was an average looking guy, which wasn’t an unusual pairing in my clientele.

I checked my notes and decided to get the ball rolling. “So it says here that you were an ice sculpture, Ingrid.”

“Yes.” Little wisps of frost flicked from her full lips.

“Do you need me to turn up the AC?” I asked.

“I don’t melt,” she said, though it was obvious she was uncomfortable.

I had my secretary adjust the temperature. I slipped on my coat and found a spare for Bob. In my profession, it helped to be prepared for these things.

Ingrid moved a little closer to the vent. “Thank you, doctor.”

“No problem. No reason for anyone to be uncomfortable.”

I caught a rueful smirk on Bob’s face and made note of it.

“So how are things going?” I asked.

“Good,” said Ingrid.

“Good,” said Bob.

I’d learned that Good rarely meant Good. But at least it wasn’t Great. Great was always Bad.

“I’m cold,” said Bob.

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“How does that make you feel, Ingrid?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said.

Fine was never fine. I allowed her a moment.

“He’s always cold,” she said.

“That’s because you always keep it too cold.” He folded his arms and performed an exaggerated shiver for effect.

“I like it cold,” she said.

“Too cold,” he snapped.

I stepped in. “Bob, Ingrid, this is a safe space. We aren’t here to blame anyone. We’re here to talk openly.”

Ingrid tossed back her hair and sighed a white cloud. “I just don’t get it. He’s an ice sculptor. He should be used to cold.”

“Not all the time,” he said. “You won’t melt if we set the thermostat a little higher.”

“I’ll still be uncomfortable,” she said.

“But now I’m uncomfortable.”

“Good. That’s honest,” I said. “It’s important to acknowledge that this is a source of tension, but we need to acknowledge that neither of you are wrong in this situation. Because if we use the word wrong, we start assigning blame. And no one is to blame here.”

“Except maybe the gods,” said Bob.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” she replied. “I don’t recall being asked to be brought to life. This is your doing.”

“I didn’t ask for it either. I was just admiring my work when Oshun appears before me and declares you perfect, waves her hand, and suddenly you’re alive.”

“Well, if neither of us asked for this, why are we even here?”

I clicked my pen a couple of times to distract them from their fight.

“If there’s one thing love gods love, it’s love. It’s in their nature. Romantics, the lot of them. But it takes more than love to make a healthy relationship. It takes work, understanding. And, no, I won’t lie to you that a relationship of your nature, it has its own unique obstacles. But every couple is different. The question to ask is if you want to be here or not.”

I paused for effect.

“Do you want to be here?”

Bob nodded. “Yes.”

Ingrid shrugged. “Well, I do love him.”

He smiled and reached across the sofa to take her hand. She didn’t pull away.

“I love you, too. I suppose I could get a hoodie for the house.”

“And I could push the thermostat up a few degrees,” she added.

They leaned in and kissed, and she ran her thumb across his bluish lips.

The rest of the session went well enough, and experience gave me a good impression of their chances. My instincts weren’t infallible, but I had a sense of when there was something to build on.

My next session was less promising. David and Jackson had been struggling for months. Struggling with dozens of little problems created to mask all the real difficulties they were unwilling to open up about.

“I just don’t think he finds me attractive anymore,” said David.

“What? You’re crazy,” said Jackson.

David waved his three arms. “See? He’s impossible.”

I said, “Jackson, we don’t use that word here.”

Jackson mumbled an apology.

“He’s barely touched me in weeks.” David twisted on the couch to turn his back on Jackson. It wasn’t easy. As a proto-cubist recreation of Michaelangelo’s David, he wasn’t built for it. “I think he’s seeing someone else.”

“What? That’s . . . ” Jackson caught himself. “How could you think that?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at your new exhibit. Don’t act like there’s not something going on there.”

“Hey, at least those paintings don’t judge me.”

“So you admit it.”

“Admit what? I’m a painter. I paint. That’s how we met in the first place. You can’t get jealous every time I start a new project. Tell him, doc.”

“Jackson has a point,” I said.

“Aha,” said Jackson with more zeal than was healthy.

“But you must admit that David’s concerns have some validity,” I said.

David laughed. His mouth, sitting on the right side of his face, twisted at an awkward angle.

Some clients saw counseling as a contest to be won. If that were true, that outlook was certainly the best way to lose. 

Sarah and Joe were my last session of the day. They were a bit of an unusual case, even for me, as Sarah was a writer. Not one of particular note, though she had a successful string of mystery novels. Successful enough for Aphrodite to be a fan.

Joe, unshaven and rumpled, chewed on a cigarette. There was no smoking in the office.

“Look, doll,” he said. “If you’re looking for a fella to take the fall, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t play the sucker for nobody.”

“All I said was that I wish he’d do more around the house,” said Sarah.

“We all got dreams, kid.” Joe adjusted his tie.

“You are such a cliche.”

“I prefer the term classic.”

He winked, a move that had gotten him out of trouble more than once, but Sarah wasn’t falling for it this time.

He slid closer and pulled her glasses off her face. “I get enough trash prowling the mean streets. Can you blame me for not standing the sight of it when I get home?”

She pulled away, snatched her glasses back. “Mean streets? We live in the suburbs. And stop calling me kid.”

“You used to love it.”

“I used to love a lot of things.”

He moved to his end of the couch and sucked on his cigarette.

“Joe, if I may, I believe what Sarah is saying is that she feels you are hiding behind patter when she’s looking for honest engagement.”

“No, what I’m saying is that I want him to take the trash out. Or get a job.”

“I have a job. Danger is my business.”

“I meant a paying job.”

Joe said, “I made a choice a long time ago. People spend their lives chasing the almighty buck, making compromises, selling their soul one piece at a time to get by. End of the day, I’m just another palooka crawling in the mud, but I still got my soul.”

Sarah groaned. “I cannot believe I wrote that.”

“Anybody can write it,” said Joe as he took off his fedora and dropped it playfully on her head. “The real question is whether you believe it, doll.”

She smiled, despite herself.

By the end of the session, Joe had agreed to take out the trash and take a look at a temp agency. It was a step in the right direction, and they left, with his arm around her and his trenchcoat slung over his shoulder.

I closed up the office. It wasn’t always easy to remain optimistic in this job. Romance was easy, but building something long-term was always work. All I could do was accept the failures and focus on the successes. The gods of love weren’t alone in their optimism

At home, I found Barbara in her studio, working on her newest sculpture. It was always a wonder watching her work, coming home every day to see stone shaped into something beautiful. I could sometimes watch her doing it for hours. I didn’t say anything right away, but she finally spotted me.

“Oh, hey, honey.” She pulled off her goggles and wiped a bit of sweat from her brow. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

She kissed me, wrapping her arms around my midsection.

“Oh, someone’s put on a little weight,” she teased.

“Hey, it’s easier to keep washboard abs when you’re made of marble rather than flesh and blood.”

She poked my love handles. “I think they’re cute.”

“Do you want to get dinner tonight?” I asked.

“I get dinner every night.”

“I meant we could go out. Someplace nice.”

She walked around her statue, surveying it one more time. “That sounds great.”

She went to change, and I surveyed the statue in progress. This guy was tall and lean with a narrow face and a feral grace, almost leaping from the unfinished stone.

It was a far cry from my own look. I still had the shoulders she’d carved for me, the jawline, the piercing eyes. But being mortal came with love handles and balding and irritable bowel syndrome. But it was all worth it for her and for the person she’d helped me become.

“What do you think?” she asked from behind me.

“Beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.” She wrapped her arms around me and pressed her face into my back. “I’ll go change, handsome.”

She slipped out of the studio. I approached the statue, looking him dead in the eye. In the spark of my divinely created soul, I believed there was somebody out there for everybody.

“But she’s mine, buddy.”

If he had a problem with it, he didn’t speak up.