TROUT 𓆝 ⋆ l. bonet + e. debarge

I.

October 28th, 1988

Today was our first session with the therapist. After our latest argument, I dug deep into the Yellow Pages and looked up dozens of names until I found one I was familiar with: De'Angelo Williams.

On the East Side, where Amir and I share a residence, that was a name buzzing amongst the young couples who were doing well for themselves and were having problems in their relationships, too, and sought a professional voice to take seriously.

Shit, even my neighbor swore by him.

"He changed my life," she told me in our lobby one afternoon. "De'Angelo isn't like any of the quacks out there; he speaks to you on a human-to-human level."

And De'Angelo was more than qualified: he graduated from UCLA with a degree in psychology. That was good enough for me. Everyone in the neighborhood thought so, too. I couldn't book a session for weeks and was put on a waitlist—can you believe that? A waitlist for a therapist, as if we were booking reservations at Chasen's in Beverly Hills.

So I waited. And waited. I waited until a receptionist at his office called to put us on the schedule and took a deposit to ensure we'd show up.

"I apologize in advance, but we need this to ensure you will attend your first session. And believe me, Mr. Williams is booked for months."

Sure, lady. Take my money.

Needless to say, I wasn't in the mood to discuss how good this would be for us.

However, Amir was excited about the session. And he hated doctors. The minute we stepped into our new psychiatrist's office, he was immediately wowed by the waiting room and its Art Deco-inspired furnishings.

Honestly, I was impressed as well. The lobby's walls were crimson to compliment the Italian all-black interior, with black vases by all chairs to allow large stalks of white calla lilies to hang over the client's head as they wished. Large paintings reflecting moments of yesteryear hung on the walls above the chairs against it—women sharing an ice cream cone, people on a subway, women observing jewelry in a shop window. All displays of classic Americana.

Amir quickly pulled me down into a chair in the middle of the lobby while he picked up a magazine, trying to seem cool and unfazed by it all. I still was taking in the excessive luxury of a doctor's office and trying not to stare down the receptionist, who stared at us as if she could see the future—and it wasn't a good look.

"Miss, can you please come up to the desk and check in with me?"

Amir urged me with a look as I got up from my seat and approached the woman at the desk, looking down at her. She was a black, middle-aged woman sharply dressed in a red Yves St. Laurent power suit—I saw the exact one in the display window at Sak's Fifth Avenue. Her hair was laid and pressed straight as the front layer was crimped from the roots, then teased to add volume, almost blocking the large, gold seashell earrings that weighed down her ears.

In short, the woman was fly.

"Hi," I greeted with a smile. "My name is Persephone Kiren. We have an appointment at twelve this afternoon."

Her eyes shot at Amir, then back at me, nodding as her fingers began to feverishly type at the Macintosh keyboard in front of her. Once she finished checking us in, she politely smiled and waved me back to my seat, not exchanging another word in our short conversation.

"Everything okay?" Amir asked, setting down the magazine.

"Yep," I answered, looking at the coffee table. "People Magazine? What's going on this week?"