Corn Flakes

I am a therapist.  Every Monday morning, after the drunks on Mason St have been mopped up by the cops, but before the Captains of Industry (and their minions) have overwhelmed the center with ambition (or perhaps more honestly, with greed), I arrive at my office.  I keep my practice on the dusty but brightly lit second floor apartment of this converted brownstone.   This morning, my key is sticky in the cold brass lock.  Or am I distracted?
Every Monday morning, she is always already here.  Lydia (not her real name, of course) has been a weekly client of mine for nearing three years.  Almost from the beginning her analysis with me focused on a consumptive loneliness that has paralyzed her in all areas of her life.  Very early on, she requested that her appointment be the first available time on Monday.  She made it clear that under no circumstances should I offer the 8 am Monday morning appointment  to another client.
She is waiting.  Sitting comfortably on the stoop, leaned against the trash can on the curb reading, or pacing on the landing under the blue awning to avoid the rain, her greetings may reflect different states of being but regardless, without fail, she is there, my first client of each new week, waiting.  There, waiting on the steps is Lydia (not her real name), every week's first client and comes to the converted brownstone in which I have opened my practice  early outside ofmy officeo and greets me like the sunrise.