The metronome on the coffee table kept a steady beat.

Frank found it oddly comforting, something he could keep his focus on

instead of blankly trying to summon the words to regurgitate to his therapist.

He watched the pendulum swing, watched its hair-thin tip catch the hook at the top each time.

Frank? His therapist asked.

Frank looked up.

What?

He asked.

It came out more defensive than he meant for it too.

We're almost ten minutes in.

His therapist continued.

And you haven't said very much.

Frank drew his brow together. No, he said. I mean, I guess so. I don't know. He went back to staring at the metronome.

What was I talking about? From the corner of his eye, he saw his therapist give him a thin, sympathetic smile.

You were talking about your wife, the man said.

You were talking about what it was like for you the day that she died.

Oh.

Frank rubbed his face.

Right.

He tried not to think about it, actually.

He was only in therapy because his grown daughter had cried at his kitchen table

for an hour before he finally made the call and scheduled an appointment.

...