“So, tell me about her.”

So she’s a narcissist.

“Oh, you’ve diagnosed her already. I’m sure you can do that for yourself as well. You don’t need me.”

I wouldn’t say that, doc. I still need someone to invoice me for my emotional problems.

“Tell me about her.”

Fine. She’s beautiful, intelligent, charming, and possessed of the emotional generosity of those tiny trains in shopping malls.

“That’s oddly specific.”

The little bastards go around in circles, make a tremendous amount of noise, and somehow never take you anywhere.

“And you love her?”

Madly.

“Despite all that?”

I also smoke occasionally despite the warnings on the packet. I’m not particularly gifted at self-preservation.

“What did you love about her?”

She made me want to be a better person.

“In what way?”

In every way. I wanted to be kinder, more thoughtful. More patient. More successful. More interesting. I wanted to become the sort of man who deserved a woman like her.

“And did you?”

I tried. God knows I tried. I worked harder. Read more. Took better care of myself. Became more thoughtful. There were moments when I barely recognised myself. I even started eating vegetables voluntarily. If that’s not love, doc, I don’t know what is.

“That sounds rather… positive?”

It was. That’s the bloody tragedy of it. She made me want to become someone I could be proud of. I thought that was what love was supposed to do.

“Tell me what happened.”

She left.

“Why?”

Apparently, I crossed some kind of boundary.

“What boundary?”

That was never adequately explained. Although her actions didn’t always match her words, I suspect she actually meant it when she said she only wanted to be friends.

“Did you respect that?”

Eventually. I wasn’t particularly graceful about it. There were questions. Explanations. A few attempts at negotiating what was apparently not a negotiation. I should never be allowed near a hostage crisis.

“And what did you do?”

Everything. I became more attentive. Less demanding. More understanding. I apologised for things I hadn’t done. I even apologised for things she had done, which, looking back, was an extraordinary piece of asshackery.

“And did it work?”

For about forty-five minutes.

“Forty-five minutes?”

Give or take. I wasn’t running analytics on the relationship. Although, in hindsight, the bounce rate was appalling.

“I see.”

There. That little smile. I knew you had one.

“I’m not here to be entertained.”

That’s what they all say until the second drink.

“I’m going to write something down.”

I hate it when you do that.

“Do what?”

Write things down. It makes me feel like a particularly interesting lab rat.

“Would you prefer I didn’t?”

No, please continue. If I ever become famous, I’d like these notes published posthumously. Preferably with illustrations.

“I assume you’ve considered that she might have narcissistic traits?”

I’ve considered that she might be the Antichrist, but I thought we should start with something more clinically respectable.

“I can’t diagnose someone I haven’t met.”

Of course not. That’s why I’m here. I can barely diagnose a cold without consulting three websites and a man on Reddit.

“And after everything we’ve discussed over these past few sessions?”

The incidents. The measured dispention of affection. Her strange ability to make me feel guilty for being hurt by things other people had done. Yes, doc. I believe I may have apologised for every man in my city at one point. I was considering issuing a public statement on behalf of the male population.

“You understand what was happening now?”

Perfectly.

“And you understand that it wasn’t a healthy relationship?”

Absolutely.

“And that going back and reinitiating contact would mean repeating the same cycle?”

Without question, doc.

“Then why do you still want her?”

Because knowing that a building is on fire doesn’t necessarily make you stop missing the view from the balcony.

“That’s quite an image.”

Thank you. I’ve been saving it. You wouldn’t believe how much material heartbreak generates. I could do a forty-five-minute set and still have enough left over for a Netflix special.

“Does making jokes help?”

Immensely.

“How?”

People laugh. I don’t have to explain why I’m miserable. Everybody wins.

“Except?”

Oh, don’t ruin a perfectly good punchline, doc.

“Can I ask you something?”

That’s generally how this arrangement works. Although you’ve been doing most of the asking. I’m beginning to suspect this is a very expensive date.

“This is not a date, wait, let me make a note of that and come back to why you think this might be. Do you realise that you will never be good enough for her?”

That’s a rather unpleasant thing to say to someone who pays you by the hour.

“I’m serious.”

So am I. I was expecting encouragement. Perhaps a certificate of participation. A little gold star for emotional resilience.

“I don’t mean you’re inadequate. I mean there is no version of you that will ever satisfy her. You could become richer, kinder, more successful, more handsome. You could have a six-pack and a BMW. You could learn to read minds and turn water into a moderately priced Cabernet Sauvignon. It wouldn’t matter. The goalposts would move.”

A BMW? In this economy? You’re setting some rather unreasonable therapeutic goals, doc.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You’re telling me I can’t win?

“I’m telling you there is no winning.”

But she made me want to be better.

“And you became better, didn’t you?”

I’d like to think so. I’ve lost weight, improved my business, developed patience. I’ve become the sort of man who folds his laundry. Properly. With corners. I was practically marriage material.

“Then why do you still need her to acknowledge it?”

Because I wanted her to see what I’d become.

“And if she did?”

Perhaps she’d finally think I was enough.

“And if she didn’t?”

I’d probably find something else to improve. There’s always room for growth. I could learn French. Buy a better car. Develop a personality that doesn’t require professional supervision.

“For how long?”

What?

“How long would you keep improving yourself to earn her approval?”

I don’t know.

“Until you were good enough?”

I suppose.

“And who decides when that is?”

She does.

“And has she ever told you that you’ve reached it?”

No.

“Has she ever suggested there is a point at which you could?”

No.

“Then what exactly are you working towards?”

Well, fuck.

“That’s usually a good sign.”

No, hang on. I’ve spent months trying to become someone she couldn’t reject.

“Yes.”

And you’re saying I could become the greatest man who ever lived and she’d still find something wrong?

“Possibly. But more importantly, she still wouldn’t owe you a relationship.”

That’s annoyingly reasonable.

“You’re allowed to become a better person. She’s allowed not to want you.”

I was rather hoping you’d take my side.

“I am on your side.”

You have a funny way of showing it.

“Would you prefer I told you what you wanted to hear?”

Absolutely. I’d also like you to tell me I’m handsome and that my hairline is recovering.

“Let’s concentrate on one delusion at a time.”

Oh, very good, doc. Very good. You’ve been holding out on me.

“Now, do you see the problem?”

I think so.

“Tell me.”

I’ve been trying to become the man she wanted, when she never actually asked me to become him.

“And?”

And even if I succeeded, she might still not want me.

“Yes.”

So I’ve essentially been trying to win a game against someone who keeps changing the rules?

“No, hun. There is no game to be played. There never was.”

And I could have stopped playing at any time?

“Yes.”

Christ. I could have taken up golf. I had the opportunity to become a golf douche.

“Would you like to schedule another session?”

I don’t think so.

“Why not?”

Because, doc, I’ve just discovered something rather wonderful.

“What’s that?”

I don’t have to be good enough for her.

“And what about the man you wanted to become?”

Oh, I still intend to become him.

“Even without her?”

Especially without her.

“Why?”

Because I rather like the fellow. And it would be a shame to abandon him simply because she did.

“Does that mean you don’t love her anymore?”

I wouldn’t go that far. I suspect I’ll love her for a while yet.

“Then what’s changed?”

I don’t need her to love me back to get on with my life.

“And you’re comfortable with that?”

Not remotely. But I suppose I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse. I once attended a three-day corporate leadership retreat.

“Would you like to talk about that?”

Good God, no. Some traumas are beyond the reach of modern psychiatry.

“So what will you do now?”

Golf, apparently. I hear they have dreadful trousers and excellent opportunities for self-improvement.

“And you won’t be trying to impress anyone?”

Good God, no. I’m going to be absolutely insufferable.

“And that would be an improvement?”

Doc, you’ve met the previous version.

“Fair point.”

There it is again. The smile. I should have charged admission.

“Goodbye.”

See you around, doc.

“I thought you weren’t scheduling another session.”

I’m not. But I might come back when I need a new audience. You’re the only woman I know who listens to me for an hour without threatening to block me.

“That’s because you pay me.”

See? Healthy boundaries. Very attractive.