“My wedding is in three weeks.”
“Yes?”
“And it’s going to take place at the Meridien hotel, the 12th floor. Have you been there?” She wasn’t supposed to be asking me questions, not yet anyway.
“Yes, I believe I have. I’m still not sure I understand what the problem is though?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of getting married?”
“No. Of elevators.”
She was wearing a denim skirt, a long denim skirt that one would have expected to reach her ankles. But hers ended suddenly, about three inches above. The sleeves of her tight white blouse played a similar trick, extending beyond her elbows but shying away from reaching her wrists. And on her head, she wore a white headscarf. A typical Damascene white headscarf, tied under her chin, covering her hair. Except that one or two strands had escaped the fabric and fell across her forehead, revealing its auburn colour. I shifted in my chair. What is it about inbetweeness that plays with me? Short and long skirts don’t bother me, I hardly notice them. Sleeveless shirts and shirts with long sleeves are equally harmless. And women with or without headscarves come and go unnoticed. But the very first patient to enter my office had managed to conceal just enough and reveal just enough to play with me.