“I was more reckless then, see. My days were saturated with cigarette smoke and my girlfriends’ perfume.”

Trisha Macintosh, therapist extraordinaire, leaned back against her seat, smiling wryly as she tapped her lip with a pen. “Once again, you wax poetical, Mr. Browning. Have you ever thought about exploring that particular talent of yours?”

“Nah. These are just fragments; pieces of glass on the floor. The chandelier shattered a long time ago. Figuratively, of course.”

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly.

“Er- that came out wrong. I mean, I’m no poet. Don’t have time for that. I just want to finish school. Plus, dear old Mother and Dad would kill me if I lost the scholarship.” He snorted at himself. “Bet that’s a new one- a rich kid on scholarship.”

Trisha shrugged. “I’m in no position to judge, Jake. Unfortunately, we’re out of time; so, I’ll see you next week?”

Jake shrugged in return. “Nothing better to do. No offense.”
“None taken. And Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Write a poem.”