The Doctor Is [IN]
There is, at the top of the main staircase, a heavy oak door with a frosted glass panel, like a monochrome sunset, over the frame. On the door, at eye level, is a brass nameplate. “Ariane Emory, Pysch.,” it says, in deeply engraved letters.
Of course, at this particular moment, that door is wide open to match the wide open windows and let a cross breeze through, so actually reading the plate might be a little difficult.
But inside the room Ari is settled on the couch, shoes on the floor in front of her, pleated skirt covering her knees and feet, perfectly willing to abandon her copy of “The Jungian Reader” to listen to troubles of anyone who cares to talk.
Of course, at this particular moment, that door is wide open to match the wide open windows and let a cross breeze through, so actually reading the plate might be a little difficult.
But inside the room Ari is settled on the couch, shoes on the floor in front of her, pleated skirt covering her knees and feet, perfectly willing to abandon her copy of “The Jungian Reader” to listen to troubles of anyone who cares to talk.