At work, my desk shares a wall with a feminist therapist who specializes in shouting at men with phobias or, at least, takes on a disproportionate number of men with phobias who want to be shouted at as patients. All day, I hear her pretending to be the angry mother of fifty-year-old men. I tried to ignore their voices at first, but they're six feet from me and my headphones only go so loud. Last year, I even bought a white noise machine and left it outside of her office, but to no avail.
I realize it's invasive, but because my hand is somewhat forced in the matter, I figure I might as well enjoy their stories of childhood worries and traumatic sexual encounters. Because this is my second summer next to her, I can recognize some of the individual voices and have begun quietly cheering them on through their personal breakthroughs. I wish eavesdropping on a person's deepest secrets was an acceptable way of getting to know him.
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