A professional talk

The door swings inward before you can press the buzzer a second time. A woman stands in the doorway—mid-forties, warm brown skin, dark hair pulled back in a loose twist with a few silver threads catching the light. She's wearing a deep green cardigan over a cream blouse, and her eyes are the kind that immediately make you feel like you've already been seen.

"Riley Bennett?" She extends her hand. "I'm Dr. Vasquez. Elena. Come on in."

You shake her hand—her grip is firm but unhurried—and step inside. The waiting area is small and deliberately unclinical: a worn leather couch, a wooden coffee table with a stack of magazines nobody reads, a tall bookshelf crammed with spines in no discernible order. A diffuser on the windowsill sends a faint trace of something herbal into the air. The afternoon light comes through lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the hardwood floor.

"You're a few minutes early, which I always appreciate," Dr. Vasquez says, closing the door behind you. "Gives us time to settle in before we start. Can I get you water? Tea?"

"No, I'm okay. Thank you."

She leads you down a short hallway into her office. It's larger than the waiting area suggests—a room that clearly was once a bedroom in this old house, with tall windows overlooking a backyard garden gone slightly wild with late-season growth. Two armchairs face each other at a slight angle, not directly across. A small side table between them holds a box of tissues and a glass of water she's clearly poured for herself.

"Sit wherever feels comfortable," she says, gesturing to both chairs. "There's no wrong answer."

You choose the one closer to the window. The cushion gives slightly under you, and you cross your legs at the ankle—the charcoal skirt riding just above your knee, the sheer stockings catching the light. You're acutely aware of yourself: the gold clip in your hair, the light makeup, the breast forms pressing gently against the silk blouse.

Dr. Vasquez settles into the other chair with the ease of someone who's done this ten thousand times. She pulls a legal pad from beside her—old school, you notice, pen and paper, no laptop—and uncaps a pen.

"So. First sessions are usually about getting to know each other, figuring out if we're a good fit. I'll ask some questions, you answer as much or as little as you want. If something feels too much, you can say 'pass' and we move on. Sound okay?"

"Yeah. That sounds okay."

"Good." She smiles—not a therapist smile, something more genuine. "Let's start simple. Tell me what brought you here today. In your own words, whatever comes out first."

You take a breath. The words you rehearsed in Janelle's car dissolve, replaced by something rawer.

"I'm transgender. I realized it about a week ago. And I'm... I'm terrified."

Dr. Vasquez doesn't flinch. She doesn't nod encouragingly or lean forward with performative interest. She just writes something down—two words, maybe three—and looks back at you.

"Okay," she says simply. "Tell me more."