Neat, that title works well with something I started writing a few minutes ago: She sat uncomfortably in the stirrup chair after her gynecological examination. Feeling vulnerable and weak and afraid and full of guilt not yet realized, she started at the drop ceiling above her, and the flickering fluorescent white lights housed in one of the tiles. It made her feel worse, the way the artificial light made everything else so much more real. The door to her examination room gently swayed open, as if not to disturb her, and a small man in a black suit with a clipboard walked in. He had a soft smile and gentle eyes, and a balding head of thinning curly black hair. "My name is Dr. Cohen, although I'm not so much of a Doctor as the previous people you have talked with. I'm more of a counselor, I'm hear to help you listen to yourself, as much as you can, and assist you with thinking about anything that may happen going forward." His voice was soft and nasal and throughly reassuring. She wept silently. "I'd like it if you could sta