Leaving the House Where We Grew Up

Linchpin

Sprawled out along the lengthy couch, Dipper was surprised at how uncomfortable the expensive article of furniture was. Granted, high cost didn't necessarily equate to coziness or relaxation. Hell, millionaires drop ungodly sums on things they never see, let alone use. That aside, the explicit purpose of a couch is to provide an enjoyable, roomy seat on which to rest. If it can't do that, what is the damn point?

Dipper wiggled his back around, trying to find a spot where the hard, plastic piping that formed the edge of the cushions wasn't digging into the small of his back. He could shimmy up towards one arm of the sofa and avoid the edge, but that meant him hitting the gap between the cushions and sinking in. Seemingly, this was not a battle he was meant to win.

'Perhaps this was some sort of sadomasochistic devise therapists enjoy inflicting upon their patients. Maybe this is how they relax while listening to their patients prattle on about everything and nothing,' Dipper though, shooting the doctor a glance, trying to get a read.

'I'd believe it.'

"Having a hard time getting comfortable today, Dipper?" she asked, looking a bit too pleased at the sight.

"Yeah. Great couch you got here."

"You can always sit up," she replied, sounding a bit irritated. Taking her advice, her patient relented and rose to settle in one of the couch's corners.

"There. Now, let's get back to how your last few weeks have gone," she inquired, pen trained over paper.

"So great. You won't believe how glorious it's been. You probably think I'm being sarcastic. You'd be wrong." Dipper lazily eloquated while staring up at the drop-in ceiling tiles, devoting a large portion of his cranial power to picking out his favorite one, based on the patterns he saw in the various black indentations.

"I certainly think you're being sarcastic, but that sarcasm tells me plenty about what your actual mood is."

"And that is?"

"Do you genuinely want to hear my thoughts or will I just be wasting your time?" she snapped, a shift in attitude that grabbed his attention,

Dipper looked at her, head titled and genuinely consider her question. Mulling over the two options, he took the honest option.

"You're right. I don't really care," he replied, tilting back to continue his mass-produced Rorschach test.

"You are one of my tougher patients. Do you know that, Dipper?" the doctor admitted, sounding equally parts impressed and frustrated.

"At last, my dreams have come true," he dryly remarked, looking on, not at her, but through her.

"What are your dreams?" she asked, seizing on the opportunity to steer the conversation towards something more analytically productive.

"Ooop. See? Now you're trying to be serious again and I don't wanna talk."

"Why not? What's wrong with discussing your dreams?" she challenged.

"Because my dreams belong to me. They're mine, not yours. Did no one ever tell you growing up that sharing what you wish for when you toss a coin in a fountain or blow out your candles that is bad luck?" Dipper asked fairly incredulously.

"No, can't say I ever heard that."

"Well, that kind of explains why you're a therapist," Dipper replied acerbically.

The cutting remark forced the conversation to grind to a halt. Recomposing herself, reminding herself why she got into therapy in the first place — to save poor souls like this misguided young man — she took control of the talking points and veered it towards a topic they had discussed earlier.