Chips | 5 April 2022

“Could you possibly eat any louder?”

At the age of six, Doug Clemmons and his cousin, Ray, had sat in a shaded swing in the hot Alabama summer and consumed an entire jumbo bag of Doritos.  But, sitting in the waiting room for the esteemed (and late) Dr. Hatcher, Annie did not share the love for corn chips and fake orange cheese and had a bigger aversion to the zealous crunch her husband made without any regard for those around him.

“God dammit, Babe, you have orange all over your shirt.”

“Anne Clemmons?”

“Right here.”

“Dr. Hatcher will see you now."

BNR Response

Doug once again wiped his Dorito-laden fingers thoughtlessly on the chest of his untucked button down and gave Anne a greasy kiss on the cheek.  “Don’t worry, babe, I’m sure she’ll have all the answers.”

Anne wiped the neon cheese residue off her cheek, slumped under the weight of the purse on her shoulder, and made her way into Dr. Hatcher’s office.  It was sleek and minimal, with new mid-century modern furnishings and a fresh box of tissues next to the couch.  Dr. Hatcher matched her surroundings: hair in a golden blonde French twist, her classic boatneck top seamlessly tucked into a knee-length pencil skirt which modestly showcased her flat belly and enviably pert bottom.  “No wonder these sessions cost $225 an hour!,” Anne ruminated silently, “I’m paying for her interior designer, stylist, and personal coach by the looks of it!”

Dr. Hatcher put her glasses on as she slid easily into her Eames chair, crossing her legs without so much of a hint of the difficulty Anne had in doing so these days.   “Please, sit wherever you like, Anne.  I’m Dr. Hatcher, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  Maybe you can tell me a little more about what brings you to see me today?”

Anne crumpled onto the couch, feeling out of place in such chic surroundings.  She pulled her fleece vest together as best she could, regretting her outfit choice as she looked down at her sweatpants.  She didn’t know where to start.  She’d never been in any kind of therapeutic setting before and didn’t know the protocol.  “Do I just jump in and tell her how rage-filled I am that my husband still has the body of a 20-year-old lacrosse player no matter what he eats?  About his incessant flirting with his fetus of a personal assistant?  How he takes his shirt off in the foyer of the salon he goes to, strutting past all the rows of female-filled chairs to get to the back where Marco trims up his neck?  And how the fuck is it that women still fall all over themselves for him?  Do I mention how he stopped giving any effort with sex with me since he apparently thinks he can still coast on his good looks from when I married him 25 years ago?  He’s lost his youthful appearance, and, while still slim, he isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he-“

“Anne?  Anne, you seem to have disassociated there for a moment.” Dr. Hatcher interrupted Anne’s internal self-exploration, prompting her to realize for the first time that she was crying.

“I don’t know where to start.  I’ve never done this before.”  Anne began, her voice thin.

“Well, you can start by telling me why your-“

“I can’t stand him.  It.  Him.  I can stand being married to that man anymore.”  In an instant, an emotional dam had given way, and it was suddenly pouring out of Anne like free-association writing only out loud.  She talked about her misogynistic husband, about his dalliances and his paramours, about his lackluster love making, his poor hygiene habits, his avoidant style of parenting, and his ego.  It took more than ten months for Anne to get to a place where her confidence was coming back, she was starting to return to herself – a self that she recognized – and she was able to face what she wanted to do about her relationship with Doug.

In their last session together, Anne thanked Dr. Hatcher for all of her help, “I just don’t know what I would have done without your strong and caring support and guidance during this last year or so,” she said, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was giving a sort of commencement address at her therapy graduation.

“Anne, it has been my sincere honor to work with you.”  Dr. Hatcher rose to walk Anne to the door.  “And, now that our professional relationship is over, I have something to ask you.”

“What’s that?”  Anne turned, her glossy amber hair sliding off of her shoulder.

“Doug and I have had coffee a few times, and last week he asked me on a romantic weekend getaway.  You don’t mind if I go, do you?”