Lying On The Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

Marshal opened the refrigerator door. Nothing there. Shirley was still not cooking. As usual she had left a new flower arrangement on the kitchen table for him. Under the bowl was a note stating she’d be back before ten. Marshal glanced quickly at the arrangement: a simple motif containing three calla lilies, two white, one saffron. The long graceful stalks of a white and a saffron calla lily were entwined and separated by a dense growth of crimson nambia berries from the third lily, which swooped away as far as possible from the other lilies and leaned dangerously far over the edge of the crackled lavender ceramic basin. Why did she leave him these flower arrangements? For a moment, just for a moment, the thought occurred to Marshal that Shirley had been using saffron and white calla lilies a great deal lately. Almost as though she were sending him a message. But he dismissed the thought quickly. The time spent on such evanescent nonsense galled him. So many better ways to use one’s time. Like cooking dinner. Like sewing some buttons on his shirts. Like finishing her dissertation, which, flaky as it was, had to be completed before she could start billing patients. Shirley was very good at demanding equal rights, Marshal thought, but was good also at giving her time away and, as long as her husband was around to pay the bills, was content to postpone indefinitely the moment of entry into the adult, billable world. Well, he knew how to use time. Pushing the flower arrangeme...