about Tiffany’s wearing her wedding ring even after her husband died, and the hugging and the crying we did in front of her parents’ house.
Cliff nods and says, “It seems like Tiffany really needs a friend, and that she thought having sex with you would make you want to be her friend. But tell me again how you handled the situation.”
So I tell him exactly what led us to the hug and how I let her get makeup on my Hank Baskett jersey and—
“Where did you get a Hank Baskett jersey?” he asks me.
“I told you. My brother gave it to me.”
“That’s what you wore to the dinner party?”
“Yeah, just like you told me to.”
He smiles and even chuckles, which surprises me. Then he adds, “What did your friends say?”
“Ronnie said that Hank Baskett is the man.”
“Hank Baskett
is
the man. I bet he catches at least seven touchdowns this season.”
“Cliff, you’re an Eagles fan?”
He does the Eagles chant—“E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!”—which makes me laugh because he is my therapist and I did not know therapists could like NFL football.
“Well, now that I know you too bleed green, we’ll have to talk Birds off the clock,” Cliff says. “So you really let Tiffany cry her makeup onto your brand-new Hank Baskett jersey?”
“Yeah, and it’s one with stitched-on numbers, not the cheap iron-ons.”
“Authentic
Hank Baskett jersey!” he says. “That was certainly very kind of you, Pat. It sounds like Tiffany only really needed a hug, which you gave her because you are a nice guy.”
I can’t help smiling, because I really am trying hard to be a nice guy. “Yeah, I know, but now she’s always following me all over town.”
“What do you mean?”
So I tell Cliff that since the dinner party, whenever I put on a trash bag and leave my house for a run, Tiffany is always waiting outside in her little running outfit and pink headband. “Very politely, I told her that I do not like running with other people and asked her to leave me alone, but she ignored my request and simply jogged five feet behind me for my entire run. The next day, she did the same thing, and she keeps on doing it. Somehow she’s figured out my schedule, and she’s always there when I leave my house an hour before sunset—ready to shadow me whereverI jog. I run fast, and she stays with me. I run on dangerous streets, and she follows. She never tires out either—and just keeps running down the street when I finally stop in front of my house. She doesn’t even say hello or goodbye.”
“Why don’t you want her to follow you?” Cliff asks.
So I ask him how his wife, Sonja, would feel if some hot woman shadowed him every time he went for a run.
He smiles the way guys do when they are alone and talking about women in a sexual way, and then he says, “So you think Tiffany is hot?” This surprises me because I did not know therapists were allowed to talk like guys do when they are buddies, and I wonder if this means that Cliff thinks of me as his buddy now.
“Sure, she’s hot,” I say. “But I’m married.”
He grabs his chin and says, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Nikki?”
I tell him I don’t know. “Maybe a couple of months,” I say.
“Do you really believe that?” he asks, grabbing his chin again.
When I say I do, I hear the yelling in my voice and even allow the f-word to slip out. Immediately I feel bad because Cliff was talking to me like a friend, and sane people should not yell and curse at their buddies.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Cliff starts to look scared.
“It’s okay,” he says, and forces a smile. “I should believe that you really mean what you tell me.” He scratches his head for a second and then says, “My wife loves foreign films. Do you like foreign films?”
“With subtitles?”
“Yes.”
“I hate those types of films.”
“Me too,” Cliff says. “Mostly because—”
“No happy endings.”
“Exactly,” Cliff says, pointing a brown
Cliff nods and says, “It seems like Tiffany really needs a friend, and that she thought having sex with you would make you want to be her friend. But tell me again how you handled the situation.”
So I tell him exactly what led us to the hug and how I let her get makeup on my Hank Baskett jersey and—
“Where did you get a Hank Baskett jersey?” he asks me.
“I told you. My brother gave it to me.”
“That’s what you wore to the dinner party?”
“Yeah, just like you told me to.”
He smiles and even chuckles, which surprises me. Then he adds, “What did your friends say?”
“Ronnie said that Hank Baskett is the man.”
“Hank Baskett
is
the man. I bet he catches at least seven touchdowns this season.”
“Cliff, you’re an Eagles fan?”
He does the Eagles chant—“E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!”—which makes me laugh because he is my therapist and I did not know therapists could like NFL football.
“Well, now that I know you too bleed green, we’ll have to talk Birds off the clock,” Cliff says. “So you really let Tiffany cry her makeup onto your brand-new Hank Baskett jersey?”
“Yeah, and it’s one with stitched-on numbers, not the cheap iron-ons.”
“Authentic
Hank Baskett jersey!” he says. “That was certainly very kind of you, Pat. It sounds like Tiffany only really needed a hug, which you gave her because you are a nice guy.”
I can’t help smiling, because I really am trying hard to be a nice guy. “Yeah, I know, but now she’s always following me all over town.”
“What do you mean?”
So I tell Cliff that since the dinner party, whenever I put on a trash bag and leave my house for a run, Tiffany is always waiting outside in her little running outfit and pink headband. “Very politely, I told her that I do not like running with other people and asked her to leave me alone, but she ignored my request and simply jogged five feet behind me for my entire run. The next day, she did the same thing, and she keeps on doing it. Somehow she’s figured out my schedule, and she’s always there when I leave my house an hour before sunset—ready to shadow me whereverI jog. I run fast, and she stays with me. I run on dangerous streets, and she follows. She never tires out either—and just keeps running down the street when I finally stop in front of my house. She doesn’t even say hello or goodbye.”
“Why don’t you want her to follow you?” Cliff asks.
So I ask him how his wife, Sonja, would feel if some hot woman shadowed him every time he went for a run.
He smiles the way guys do when they are alone and talking about women in a sexual way, and then he says, “So you think Tiffany is hot?” This surprises me because I did not know therapists were allowed to talk like guys do when they are buddies, and I wonder if this means that Cliff thinks of me as his buddy now.
“Sure, she’s hot,” I say. “But I’m married.”
He grabs his chin and says, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Nikki?”
I tell him I don’t know. “Maybe a couple of months,” I say.
“Do you really believe that?” he asks, grabbing his chin again.
When I say I do, I hear the yelling in my voice and even allow the f-word to slip out. Immediately I feel bad because Cliff was talking to me like a friend, and sane people should not yell and curse at their buddies.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Cliff starts to look scared.
“It’s okay,” he says, and forces a smile. “I should believe that you really mean what you tell me.” He scratches his head for a second and then says, “My wife loves foreign films. Do you like foreign films?”
“With subtitles?”
“Yes.”
“I hate those types of films.”
“Me too,” Cliff says. “Mostly because—”
“No happy endings.”
“Exactly,” Cliff says, pointing a brown
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