silence in the small, confined space was deafening.
When they stepped out into the corridor, their shoes echoed on the highly polished faux-marble flooring. With most of the building’s tenants closed for the weekend, no sounds disturbed the hushed hallway.
Hannah consulted the slip of paper in her hand and then the placard on the wall. “It’s this way, I guess. Three doors down on the right.” Morgan followed her in silence. It hadn’t been a great week. After sharing the pizza for dinner on Monday evening, she’d made up some lame excuse to go home. She felt jittery and unsettled, and she sure as heck hadn’t been in the mood to stay and have sex.
Tuesday and Wednesday Morgan worked late. She hadn’t suggested he come over, and he hadn’t brought it up, either. Last night, they’d been to dinner and a movie with some friends, but they had met at the restaurant and thus both had cars.
When the other couple left, Hannah and Morgan had stood in the parking lot, and for the first time in their relationship, she hadn’t been able to read him. He was usually an open book, his amiable personality a pleasant change from some men she had dated . . . though she was fully aware that his gentle, easygoing demeanor hid a streak of stubborn determination.
After an awkward silence, he had kissed her good night and climbed into his car.
Even tonight when he picked her up, the strained atmosphere between them made her regret ever having broached the subject of sexual counseling. She could call it off right now, but Morgan might press her to pick a date, and that she was not prepared to do.
It was two minutes after seven when they entered the medium-size conference room. The other couples were already in place as was the husband/wife counseling team.
After a flurry of introductions, Hannah and Morgan sat down on a comfy, floral-patterned love seat. Three more pieces of furniture just like it but with contrasting upholstery were pulled into a fairly tight circle.
Hannah surveyed the group, her heart beating fast for some unknown reason. She’d never been bashful about meeting strangers, but this whole setup had her spooked.
The couple to her right couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, maybe younger, and they looked scared to death. They were holding hands, white knuckled, and they barely managed to make eye contact with their fellow counselees. They had been introduced as Timmy and Rachelle, no last names . . .
The couple on Morgan’s left were much older. Hannah guessed them to be in their early to mid-forties at least. The woman was slim and attractive, and she was dressed in an upscale pantsuit with gold jewelry. Her husband was really tall and lanky, and had a dimple that flashed when he spoke. Their names were Danita and Shaun.
The two doctors wore simple white lab coats and insisted on being called by their first names as well, Sheila and Pat. They were almost androgynous, both slim and lean with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
Hannah tucked her purse at her feet and tried to relax. Morgan seemed comfortable beside her, but she couldn’t really tell.
Dr. Sheila got things rolling. With a businesslike smile, she greeted them. “Let me explain one thing from the outset,” she said crisply. “This is not a group about sexual dysfunction. We do have patients with those challenges, but this group assembled here tonight has nothing to do with that. All of you are strong, committed, healthy couples. You’ve sought out this venue to improve what are already good sexual relationships.”
She paused and looked at her spouse. He picked up the verbal pass. “Sheila and I have been married for almost forty-two years. We’ve been in practice together twenty-five of those. Ordinarily, we do group sessions for premarital sexual counseling based on our inherent belief that a healthy relationship in the bedroom goes a long way toward ameliorating difficulties that crop up in other areas.
When they stepped out into the corridor, their shoes echoed on the highly polished faux-marble flooring. With most of the building’s tenants closed for the weekend, no sounds disturbed the hushed hallway.
Hannah consulted the slip of paper in her hand and then the placard on the wall. “It’s this way, I guess. Three doors down on the right.” Morgan followed her in silence. It hadn’t been a great week. After sharing the pizza for dinner on Monday evening, she’d made up some lame excuse to go home. She felt jittery and unsettled, and she sure as heck hadn’t been in the mood to stay and have sex.
Tuesday and Wednesday Morgan worked late. She hadn’t suggested he come over, and he hadn’t brought it up, either. Last night, they’d been to dinner and a movie with some friends, but they had met at the restaurant and thus both had cars.
When the other couple left, Hannah and Morgan had stood in the parking lot, and for the first time in their relationship, she hadn’t been able to read him. He was usually an open book, his amiable personality a pleasant change from some men she had dated . . . though she was fully aware that his gentle, easygoing demeanor hid a streak of stubborn determination.
After an awkward silence, he had kissed her good night and climbed into his car.
Even tonight when he picked her up, the strained atmosphere between them made her regret ever having broached the subject of sexual counseling. She could call it off right now, but Morgan might press her to pick a date, and that she was not prepared to do.
It was two minutes after seven when they entered the medium-size conference room. The other couples were already in place as was the husband/wife counseling team.
After a flurry of introductions, Hannah and Morgan sat down on a comfy, floral-patterned love seat. Three more pieces of furniture just like it but with contrasting upholstery were pulled into a fairly tight circle.
Hannah surveyed the group, her heart beating fast for some unknown reason. She’d never been bashful about meeting strangers, but this whole setup had her spooked.
The couple to her right couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, maybe younger, and they looked scared to death. They were holding hands, white knuckled, and they barely managed to make eye contact with their fellow counselees. They had been introduced as Timmy and Rachelle, no last names . . .
The couple on Morgan’s left were much older. Hannah guessed them to be in their early to mid-forties at least. The woman was slim and attractive, and she was dressed in an upscale pantsuit with gold jewelry. Her husband was really tall and lanky, and had a dimple that flashed when he spoke. Their names were Danita and Shaun.
The two doctors wore simple white lab coats and insisted on being called by their first names as well, Sheila and Pat. They were almost androgynous, both slim and lean with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
Hannah tucked her purse at her feet and tried to relax. Morgan seemed comfortable beside her, but she couldn’t really tell.
Dr. Sheila got things rolling. With a businesslike smile, she greeted them. “Let me explain one thing from the outset,” she said crisply. “This is not a group about sexual dysfunction. We do have patients with those challenges, but this group assembled here tonight has nothing to do with that. All of you are strong, committed, healthy couples. You’ve sought out this venue to improve what are already good sexual relationships.”
She paused and looked at her spouse. He picked up the verbal pass. “Sheila and I have been married for almost forty-two years. We’ve been in practice together twenty-five of those. Ordinarily, we do group sessions for premarital sexual counseling based on our inherent belief that a healthy relationship in the bedroom goes a long way toward ameliorating difficulties that crop up in other areas.
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