"Have you been avoiding me?" my therapist asks as he fetches me from waiting room 2. We walk down a long, beige hallway to his sparsely furnished office. As I plop onto a cheap foam couch adjacent to his desk, I wonder how many other people have sat on this exact cushion. The thought strikes me as sad. My therapist is nearing retirement (so he says), and the frequency with which he mentions this is truly alarming. He always wears all-black converse that zip up the side; I find this strange, but say nothing.