Indulge me for a couple hundred words as I muse about why the waiting rooms at therapists’ offices are only occupied by women. In the last four years that I’ve been consistently attending therapy, the predominant denizen of the outer domain (aka waiting room) is always female.
It’s been two weeks since I emailed Frank in Afghanistan asking about the photograph of him and the woman Amy (who shares the same last name as him but isn’t his sister), and he still hasn’t replied. I know that he’s checked his email since I sent the message because he forwarded a photo to me, his mother, and his sister, but he still hasn’t responded to my questions.
Italians love the girls, expecially...
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