23 NoraNora sat in a Mission-style chair, her elbows resting on solid oak arms, her penny loafers side-by-side on blue-gray carpeting. She wore her on-the-road khaki slacks topped by a sweater over a cotton T-shirt. She’d been back in Parma since ten o’clock this Monday morning.
The discreetly-lit nine-by-twelve-foot space she’d reached this afternoon was a completely new environment. Her last unpleasant encounter with a practicing psychologist made her wary of the one who held counseling sessions in this room.
Firm rust-colored seat and back cushions supported her body and the chair’s sturdy embrace made her feel contained and supported. If this item of furniture couldn’t stop a person from going to pieces, at least it would keep all body parts in a tidy pile.
Or maybe the box of tissu
