Sacramento St

His office was on the second floor of a gray and white Victorian on the upward slope of Sacramento Street in Pacific Heights. I was fifteen minutes late to my appointment because I couldn't find street parking and the lot on Fillmore was full. I had to circle around the block a couple times because all the streets were one way, congested by crossing pedestrians and Muni buses backing up the midday traffic.

Though it was a sunny late summer afternoon, the towering marble facade of the flats across the street shadowed my walk to his office. There were a few short steps in front of the black grill gate of the building and an intercom to the right of the gate. I keyed in the code he had given me over the phone and waited for the light to turn green and the gate to buzz open. On the eave overhanging the gate, a pigeon cooed. I entered the front door to the hallway, where the carpet was a smooth burgundy, the walls and bannister were a soothing cream, and the smell of fresh paint wafted to the skylight. I walked upstairs to the waiting room, but since I was late, his door at the end of the hall was already open.

His office was masculine and cozy and smelled like the potted ferns in the two corners to either side of the bay window. The floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelves along the wall to my right were filled with leather bound medical texts, manuals and workbooks, a hardback of the DSM-IV, and the yellow paperback edition of Feeling Good, almost identical to the barely read copy I gave away to another patient in my last outpatient group therapy. There was a long leather couch along the wall to my left, a box of tissues on the end table, and a standing brass lamp next to the table. His dark mahogany desk was placed against the wall at a right angle to the couch, and his leather reclining chair was pulled away from the desk and facing the couch.

He stood with his back to me, about six feet tall, lean, with blond clean cut hair. He was facing the bay window overlooking Sacramento St, his hand in his pocket, idly flipping what I presumed to be his cell phone. He was wearing charcoal slacks over his slim hips and tight ass, black leather loafers, and a dark green collared shirt over his broad shoulders, his sleeves rolled over his sinewy forearms to reveal a light fuzz of hair. I stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the shoulder strap of my messenger bag, my other hand on the brass doorknob. I was biting my lip, wondering if his pubic hair would be as light and fuzzy as the hair on his arms.

I must have made a small sound, because he turned and fixed his eyes on me, cozy and green as the ferns. He couldn't be older than mid-thirty. I could see now his short spiked bangs, strong jaw and cheekbones. He stopped fiddling with the cell phone in his pocket and held up his hand to stop me from further entering the room. He didn't speak, but looked me over, as if he were memorizing every visible detail of my appearance, my black blunt bob, dark brown eyes, the scar on my upper lip, my natural tan. How my Porn Star baby tee stretched up, unveiling my navel piercing and the strip of my belly when I breathed in and my ribs expanded, his eyes lingering on my breasts. There was that small sound in the back of my throat again as his eyes drifted down to the low waist of my olive urban cargos, and my breath easing as he removed his gaze from my fly. I shifted my feet restlessly, tapped the square toes of my metallic silver Doc Martens. His lips creased briefly into a smile.

He turned to his desk, opened his desk drawer, and removed a pen and calling card. He bent over his desk to write a note on the back of the card. Then, he strode briskly to the door and stopped within arms length of me.

"I can't be your therapist," he said in the smooth rich baritone I'd heard on the phone. He handed me the card. "Here's the name and number of someone who can."

I glanced at the card. "I don't like women therapists."

"I can tell." He tipped up my chin, so I couldn't avoid his eyes. He brushed his thumb over my lower lip, smoothed away the blood I'd drawn when I'd bitten it. I licked his thumb, curled my face into his palm. It was warm and strong, but gentle at the same time. He clenched his jaw.

"Call me when you've made an appointment, even if you don't choose her. Do it soon." He took my hand, turned my wrist over, assessed the diagonal scars with his eyes.

"I know what to do if I'm in danger," I said softly.

He released me. "Then, I'll wait for your call."

I closed the door behind me, left the building, and wondered as I walked down Sacramento if he was watching me from the window.