Fiction
The Counseling Session
Couples therapy can get dangerous
“I still don’t get why we’re here.”
“Maybe because you never listen.”
“I listen.”
“Let’s not interrupt,” the therapist said, “please continue.”
“You don’t listen,” she said, “half the time I feel like I’m talking to the wall.”
“Because you can only listen to the same things so many times.”
“Like you don’t repeat yourself. How many times do I have to hear about that time you met Bram. Oh he just loved my stories. He was writing down everything I said.”
“Please like I haven’t heard about you studying abroad in Romania a thousand times. Drac was so charming. And his palace was just the best. And we went hunting every day. The villagers were so afraid.”
“Bram Stoker?” the therapist said.
But the couple was ignoring them.
“Oh and your movie career in Germany?”
“What about it? Those were good movies.”
“They didn’t even have sound.”
“So? That made them scarier.”
“Well how many times are you going to make me watch it?”
“I thought you liked it.”
“I did the first hundred years.”
The therapist was now just sitting back, a little confused, and a tad scared as he was starting to put their story together. He also couldn’t hear a heart beating in either one of them.
His heart was beating faster as he started to realize who was sitting in front of him.
“Yeah well I don’t say anything when you helped that woman write those books.”
“I like those books,” she said.
“I know but now we have to be more careful than ever.”
“Careful? You want to talk about being careful? Do you know what he likes to do?”
“What?” the therapist asked.
“He loves waitresses,” she said.
“And?”
“For dinner,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Yes, we had to stop going to all our favorite places because they were getting suspicious.”
“I can see how that would get frustrating.”
The therapist was discreetly checking his calendar on his phone.
“Do you have a dog?’ the man asked, sniffing the air.
“No,” the therapist responded, “Can you see how she would be frustrated about losing her favorite spots to eat.”
“He also never keeps his side of the crypt clean,” she added.
“Crypt?” the therapist asked.
“Yes,” she said, “his side is always dirty. Every night when I wake up I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah, well you should have seen her last Halloween.”
“Oh I knew you were going to bring that up?’
“What happened last Halloween?” the therapist asked.
“She went out in the neighborhood all decked out, fangs, cape everything.”
“I don’t quite see what the problem is.”
“Now three kids are missing.”
“I see.”
“Well I can’t stand it,” she said, “every year they dress up like us. They’re making us into a joke. Sometimes they need to remember why we’re scary. I mean you get it?”
The therapist nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.
“I know but that’s why we have to move every ten years.”
“Well, it’s not my fault sometimes I get hungry.”
“I know but this has been going on for a thousand years.”
“A thousand years?’ the therapist asked. He’d heard husbands exaggerate over the years but he didn’t think that was the case here.
“Yep.”
“You know,” the therapist said, “sometimes a mutual activity might help bring couples together.”
“An activity?” they both said at the same time.
“Yes,” the therapist, “I have a book right here.”
“Oh I have an idea,” he said.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“That blonde barista at the coffee shop?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh god, I can taste her heart already.”
“Excuse me?” the therapist said.
“Honey, let’s not say everything in front of him.”
“Why? That’s why we came to him.”
“I don’t think doctor-patient confidentiality covers murder,” the therapist said.
“That’s not what we’re talking about,” he said, “we know your secret moon boy.”
The therapist gulped, the stress was making the hair on his arms grow thick and black.
“Yes,” she said, “do you think we’d be so open about our secret and let you live if you weren’t a werewolf.”