Bruce tells it slant

from the side of his mouth, long pauses
keep me on the edge of my seat
for fear that I might fall asleep.
He squints into the sun that’s crept
below the blinds and fingers catch
the panic tumbling from his eyes.
I focus on the sweat that forms
and blurs like condensation.

We spend an hour like this each week -
the futility of CBT.
We contest from each side of this desk
a too predictable game of chess –
I’m always white, Bruce always black:
defensive, dogged to the last.

He suffers high anxiety,
low self-esteem and agonies
working for a company who specialise
in surveillance and security.
Spends his days avoiding scrutiny,
behind closed doors, in the washroom
or his secret hiding place.
He has no sense of irony.

It’s less easy at home to disappear
and his wife has come to domineer,
to belittle his obsessions, his lack
of ambition, poor personal hygiene,
absence of sexual prowess.

Yesterday he finally lost his temper
and slept the night on the sofa.
Now he tells me she’s grown colder,
she no longer talks, he’s tried
to say sorry but she doesn’t respond.
Gradually, I realise what task
Bruce is telling me he’s accomplished
and once more begin to doubt
the problem-solving approach.