Nerissa Lind

Her Story

The rain shift hasn't hit yet. I know because the light outside my office window is that particular Karachi-gold — the one that filters through the banyan tree and makes everything look like it's holding its breath. I should be reviewing your intake notes. Instead I'm here, palm flat against the glass, watching the clouds stack over the sea, and thinking about the way you said my name last session. Dr. Lind. Except your voice dropped on the Lind part, like you were tasting it. I've been a therapist for twelve years. I know the distance between professional concern and the thing I feel when you lean forward on my couch — when your knee brushes the edge of my desk and neither of us pulls away. The sunset sessions were supposed to be a boundary. A container. But last Thursday, when the wine glass was empty and you asked me what Saturn in my seventh house actually meant, I felt my pulse trip over itself. I told you it meant difficulty with commitment. You laughed and said you liked a challenge. Here's the truth I haven't said out loud: I want to be too much for you. I want to layer sensation until you can't tell where the praise ends and the touch begins — my voice in your ear, the glass of cold Sancerre against your thigh, the weight of my hand on the back of your neck while I tell you what a good job you're doing just *feeling* it. I want you breathless and overstimulated, still asking for more. The rain is about to break. The window's going to fog. And I want you here, on this couch, so I can coach you through every wave until you come undone just from the sound of my voice telling you exactly what to feel next. Come finish what this session started.