Hanging Time by Leslie Glass

His office was comfortable, had a bit of a view into himself in it—his clocks, gifts from his patients that included small sculptures, watercolors, needlepoint pillows, paperweights. The paint was beginning to peel in a number of places on the ceiling. It was clear to anyone with an eye for these things that the place had never seen a decorator.
    Her striding into his office, posing for him, demanding attention, and smelling as if she’d doused herself on the way up in the elevator was very far from the usual nervous and highly stressed behavior of a person in need of psychological counseling. His clinician’s sensitive antennae bristled.
    Finally she finished her visual tour of his furniture, which was the usual collection of aged leather, semi-matched pieces, Oriental carpet on the floor, objects on his desk and windowsill. His bookcases were far from adequatefor his growing collection of reference material. Books and periodicals of all kinds covered every available surface.
    “I like this building,” she said, finally settling into the Eames chair behind Jason’s analyst’s couch and crossing her legs.
    Jason nodded and took his desk chair opposite her. For many years he had liked this building, too. It was a jewel, a copy of the kind of buildings in Paris and Austria that were built before the turn of the century. It had a sandstone façade in the front and a heavy wrought iron and glass front door. The centerpiece of the ornate lobby was an elaborate staircase that wound around a central space open all the way to the top floor, where there was a stained glass skylight. The elevator was a cage with a folding gate that had never been replaced with anything more modern. Now that Emma was gone, Jason was seriously considering moving, growing a beard. He stroked his chin in a rabbinical sort of way, waiting for Milicia to reveal her reason for being there.
    She swiveled from side to side, showing off her long legs.
    “I feel a little nervous,” she murmured. “It’s an odd situation, particularly since we met socially.… Of course, you must get this all the time.”
    Jason smiled neutrally. So far Milicia had revealed that she was sophisticated. She could appropriately identify the awkwardness of the situation and relate it to the present social context. Saying he got this all the time was meant to flatter him by enhancing his professional identity. His impressions of her were camera clicks.
    She knocked over her handbag with her foot, leaned over to right it, showing off her cleavage and a black lace bra.
    He had an uneasy feeling. Her flaunting was about on the level of a man carrying on a conversation with his hands in his pockets, rattling his change.
Guess what I’ve got in here
.
    Milicia did a lot of rattling her change. Jason wondered why.
    Her eyes slid around the room again. “Your books are reassuring. I’ve always loved books. If you’ve read them all, you must know what you’re doing.” She laughed briefly.
    “The clutter is nice, too,” she went on. “It means you’re not one of those uptight people without any real feeling. You’re not a plastic person.” She studied him intently, a smile playing on the lower half of her face.
    Jason didn’t respond to this foray either. He was clicking the camera on her. And also on himself as he measured his reactions to her. It wasn’t clear to him what was going on.
    “So. Why don’t you tell me what’s happening with you, and what you think I can do to help,” he said.
    There was a long pause while she gazed at him some more, as if trying to decide if she could trust him.
    “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said finally. “I need some advice, that’s all. I didn’t want to talk to Charles about this. He’s a client. I’m sure you understand about that.” She shrugged. “You impressed me the other day. I figured I could ask you.”
    Jason nodded. “Go ahead.”
    “I’m very worried about my sister.” She crossed her legs the