ALISON
My therapist's office was situated in a lovely old Victorian house down a residential street in Bayerton, about ten minutes from where I lived. My doctor in Philadelphia had recommended Brooke Slater, with whom she'd worked in a large Richmond, Virginia practice years ago before my former doctor had moved north and Brooke had gotten married and relocated to Florida.
In the two years I'd been seeing Brooke for bi-monthly sessions, we'd developed a friendly sort of relationship that didn't violate the patient-therapist boundaries-but that at the same time made me feel more comfortable about sharing my deepest thoughts with her. Sometimes our conversation before or after my visits wandered into something more akin to girlfriend chatter.
Today was such a day. I'd taken advantage of
