The shape of it myself

One of mine, about her husband, almost at the end of the hour: I am not angry about the thing. I am angry that I had to find out the shape of it myself. I did not say anything for slightly too long. Not a disaster. Maybe a beat and a half, and I recovered it and the rest of the session was fine and she will not have noticed anything. But I noticed. There was a moment where the sentence was in the room and it was hers and it was also sitting on my sternum, and I had to decide consciously to put mine down and pick hers back up, and consciously is the wrong word for how that should work. Four months ago this would have gone through me and I would have driven home with the radio off and put it in a drawer. What I did instead was write it on the back of my notes so I would bring it to Priyanka, which is not much, but it is the first time I have deliberately routed one of these somewhere rather than carrying it. I took the long way home anyway. Not with the radio off. With the radio on, which I noticed myself doing and then felt faintly ridiculous about, like a person congratulating themselves for a vegetable.