Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

When Deniz walked in, she left the door open.
They exchanged hellos and she shook his hand.
Her gray blouse cuffed tightly at her wrists and the nape of her neck, as if the blouse
itself was holding her upright. She took a seat across from him on the sleek white bench. Her
hands were empty. This comforted him right from their first meeting. He always felt anxious in
movies when he saw therapists with their notebooks, scrawling away while their patient spoke.
They must be missing so much of what is being said. He could not think of anything more
terrifying than a story poorly told. Well, he could, he hadn’t visited a clinic in years. He dreaded
the vulnerability he felt, the possibility that someone could look at him and tell him that there
was something wrong about him. He knew there must be.
This was not a therapist, in any case, Deniz was just ‘Deniz’ and she had a big office but
she called herself a ‘conscience consultant’.
In her description online, she referenced the super-ego and her dedicated study in
embodying its voice to guide her– socially advantaged– clients towards living atypical yet
fulfilling lives.
“Pleasure seeing you, Hamza. How are things?” She asked, in a way that communicated
that she didn’t mind nor even desire to be asked the same back.
“Always something to think about,” Hamza told her. He wanted her to ask another
question, not knowing how to unfold.
“That’s good. If that’s what you want, of course. I recall your concerns with directionality
and–”
Hamza nodded his head. “Right. Finding a hobby, I think we decided on.”
“Well, not a hobby. A pastime, an avocation of some recreational desire. Something to
derive meaning from,” she said, brushing something off her knee. She looked up at him. “How
did that go?”
“Well,” he said. “As I told you before, I substitute for teachers sometimes.”
Deniz looked surprised, but quickly smiled. “Impressive, Hamza. I didn’t know you were
interested in teaching or had that kind of experience.”
Hamza wanted to laugh. “Yeah.” Neither did he. It was one of those things. He had just
walked in, seen an unruly room of kids with no one at the desk and decided that could be it. He
felt nervous. “I like the thought of desire being recreational, it’s ridiculous. How can you
studiously and earnestly desire?”
Deniz smiled. “That’s a funny question.”
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