He came into my office, more than twenty minutes late, and sat down quietly in the red chair across from me. He brushed his fingertips against his temple as if he was used to combing his hair through. It was a nervous habit of his; his hair was even shorter than it was last time I saw him. I've never seen it as long as he claims it used to be.
"How are you feeling today, Aidan?" I asked him.
He nodded slightly before answering, "I'm okay, Doctor."
I watched him hold his hands in his lap, his fingers playing with a ring on his left hand. He wore the same ring every visit, but, still, I had yet to see it clearly. Aidan Allaway was possibly my most frequent visitor--and one of my few patients. The number of patients who came to see me had been dwindling year after year, and, when the scarcity of patients had nearly pushed me into a fit of desperation, I got a phone call. I secretly blamed all the self-help books and free advice websites for the reason I had so few patients. I was greatly relieved, and a little ecstatic, when I got a phone call from Aidan's mother at first. Later, after meeting his kind of overbearing mom, I was a little less relieved. But I am grateful to have gotten the phone call; if it wasn't for the frequent visits, I would be "going out of business", you could say.
"What's the ring for?"
"It was hers," he simply said, his voice a little quiet. He stopped fidgeting and laid his hands in his lap, still staring at them.
I made a note in my writing pad and then paused for a moment. "Why don't you tell me about her?"
Finally looking up, he replied, "Her who?" I could tell he knew who I was talking about.
"The 'her' you've been talking about. You never told me her name."
"Oh, her..." He ran his hand over his buzzcut, sighing heavily as he looked away.
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