One one thousand.
Two one thousand.
Three…
“Okay,” Milton’s exasperated voice comes through, “fifteen hundred.Fifteen hundred an hour, Emee. That’s as high as I’m authorized to go. For four sessions, that’s sixgrand.”
Ah, the sweet taste of victory with zero calories.
“Fifteen hundreda session,” I counter. “A session is forty minutes. If this testosterone tornado is one minute late, I cancel his appointment and I still get paid.”
Benjamin starts to cough on the couch, the horrible hacking sound growing deeper and more foreboding every week.
Pressure pops in my ears as I grind my molars. Benjamin pushes onto his feet, fist covering his mouth as the cough turns to a choking sound. He takes four long strides toward the hidden closet on the wall, slapping his palm onto the door and helping himself to a Coke from the mini fridge inside.
Then he turns my way, pointing to his head, squinting at me. “What’s with your hair?” he says, as I flap my hand, gesturing for him to shush.
“When?” Milton sounds relieved. I aim my mouse over to the available time slots on my screen as he adds, “I’ve got him waiting outside if you can fit him in.”
I roll my eyes at Benjamin’s wet slurping sounds as he mockingly twirls his finger in an imaginary tendril of hair.
I bought this…beach waver contraption off a Facebook ad and used my lunch hour today figuring out how to use it to tame my Lucille Ball red curls into pageant-worthy spirals. It worked, even if I agree I look a little ridiculous.
“What’s his name?” I ask Milton, clicking on the ‘add new client’ tab in my scheduling program.
“King Hertzof,” Milton says.
Coke sprays from Benjamins lips onto my white carpet, which takes what’s left of my fifteen hundred dollar per session dopamine high and stomps it out.
“KingHertzof?” Benjamin repeats, his bloodshot eyes snapping wide, swiping the back of his hand across the dripping soda on his chin, as droplets of the brown liquid seep into the carpet in front of his worn, mud-covered Nikes.
“That’s his name?” I question on a sigh, not caring which one of them answers.
“Yep.” Milton confirms.
“I can’t see him tonight,” I say, my belly rolling in anticipation of my third date tonight with the latest guy I met on Hollar. “But I had a cancellation at eight am tomorrow. And go over the Cuddler Client Code of Conduct and prep work with him. I’m not giving him any leeway. He screws up, I still get paid.”
Milton thanks me, and we wrap up the appointment details, signing off as my tense attention turns to the mess of my sibling, who has taken a seat on the edge of my Adrian Pearsall glass-topped coffee table.
“There are many places here meant for sitting.” I push back from my desk, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from the box next to my monitor, taking three steps before dropping them on the Coke stain, applying pressure with the toe of my white sneaker. “Do you need something? I need to get ready to go somewhere.”
He doesn’t ask where, which is no surprise these days.
His face erupts in a wide, forced smile, showing off the hit his teeth have taken from his lifestyle choices. “I’m in a bind, Carrot.”
Here we go.
My gut turns sour as I drop to my knees to work at the last stubborn specks of the brown stain. If that spot doesn’t come out, I won’t be able to sleep.
Benjamin looks strangely excited. “You working with Hertzof? That’s promising.”
“You are not supposed to know about that,” I bark, pointing the handful of tissues his way while silently admonishing myself for allowing him to overhear my conversation. “You hear me? That’s confidential.”
Following rules and keeping my practice squeaky clean are front and center in my business plan. One screw up as a newly-licensed therapist could spell disaster.
He raises his hands, the can of Coke wobbling as my temples throb. “Don’t get your tutu in a twist. I’m just saying—”
“What do you want?I have things to do.” It’s nearing six o’clock and contrary to what most people may think, cuddling people all day can take it out of a girl.
