Robert had left that session not feeling much better than when he had arrived. Though perhaps he was being a bit too hard on his psychiatrist. After all, he surely could not work miracles in old day. This was a diagnostic visit: to give him some notes to stew over to come up with a better idea. A part of Robert's brain itched with the desire for it to be quick. These reoccurring nightmares were not pleasant. 

By the time he had arrived and locked his door, the phone began to ring. He winced slightly upon seeing the caller ID: Irene. He promptly picked up the phone, composed himself, and hit the talk button. "Hello?"

"It's Thursday." 

"Indeed it is."

"Are you not coming over?"

"Not tonight, no." He rubbed his forehead and shut his eyes while doing so, flashes of his conversation with Dr. Shavleson and his nightmare coming to mind. Being beaten by a metal bar. 

"Did your talk with the psychologist not go well?"

"Not as well as I hoped. But perhaps I expected too much from an initial consultation."

"Is he nice?"

"I suppose. I couldn't make much of a judgement."
 
They were silent for a moment, and he began to tap his fingers on the table as it permeated. She started speaking again soon after. "You haven't been by in a while."

"You know exactly why."

"Robert, you're not going to kill me in my sleep. Or hurt me. At least not without me kicking your ass."

"How very loving of you."

"Nothing says love like a taser to your chest."

"I never took you for a sadist."

"Nor I you."

"Regardless, I do not wish to take chances. I will not--" a buzzing was now heard on his cellphone. He checked the caller ID there, and his eyes widened at the name: Dr. Shavleson's office. "Actually... That's him right now. Hold on." He put the phone to his other ear and tapped the talk circle on his touchscreen. "Hello? Yes, this is Dr. Bishop speaking..." A long pause followed as he listened carefully, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper as time passed. When he finally spoke, his tone was dry. "Does the good Doctor wine and dine all his patients?"

"Robert!" Irene screeched at him reproachfully on her end of the phone and made him wince: he had not silenced their call. "I apologize for my words and abruptness. You will have to excuse me for one moment," he spoke to Marcy, "I need to check my calendar. What is his address?" He scribbled it on a nearby piece of paper. "Thank you. Please excuse me." And with a click on his touchscreen, the microphone was silent. 

"Who was that?"

"That was his secretary informing me that he would like to invite me to his home for dinner tonight."

Another pause, this time from Irene. "You don't like it because it's unprofessional."

"Correct."

"Would it really hurt to eat just one meal? It's not like he's trying to drag you off to some corner."

"I would rather be viewed as a patient."

"One dinner is not going to kill you. Besides, you can judge this man better for yourself. See if he really is the psychologist for you."

Robert rubbed his forehead and sighed. A horizon was visible: a migraine would be soon. "I... Fine. I'll bring a bottle of some of the wine we got from Germany. The Trockenbeerenauslese, for good measure."

"Good show."

With that, he activated the microphone on his cellphone to give his reply to Marcy. "Ma'am? Yes, I am indeed free this evening. Would he care for me to bring anything?... Anything will do? Very well, I will bring something nice. I hope it will be to his taste. Thank you very much, and have a good evening. Yes, thank you. Good bye." A click, and it was over. Robert then spoke into Irene's receiver. "I need to go curl up for a little while before this. I... Sorry."

A click was heard on her line. Robert didn't need to hear a conformation from her, as she perfectly understood his migraines. He would curl up on his floor, ride his migraine until it was over, shower, put on a good suit, grab the wine, and then leave. It would be a pleasant, possibly drab affair, and he had no reason to believe that Dr. Shavleson had no taste. His thoughts began to get harder, more scattered and scratched. And he soon covered his hands to his head just as broken snippets from his nightmares came back. 

The consequential screaming was not from the migraine.