"No, you can smoke if you want to; all I ask is that you use the ashtray."

A solid quartz ashtray sat on the coffee table that was positioned between Charles and Dr. Hahn. Charles studied it for a moment, briefly taking in it's pinkish color and rugged texture (even wondering where the chip in it's left side corner came from) before smiling at the doctor and reaching into his left jean pocket for his crushed soft-pack of Camels.

"That's a nice ashtray, Dr." he muttered mostly to himself and he slipped one of the rolled coffin nails out of his pack (a quick count told him he had four left) and into the right side of his mouth. A pat-down of his pockets left him wondering if he'd forgotten his lighter. His brow furrowed as his mind raced; where had he left that yellow firestick?

"Did you forget your light, Charles?" the doctor asked, his fingers linked together and resting on his lap as he sat in the comfortable looking blue armchair. Charles nodded, rolling the cigarette between his fingers as the brief yet crushing disappointment sunk in.

"Is it in your coat?" Hahn asked, pointing at the dark grey duster that hung from the wooden pegs that were nailed into the wall; right next to the ornate door he had come in through. Charles stood up and took the four steps to the door, and with a renewed feeling of adventure he began rifling through the pockets of the wet jacket.

"Aha! Thanks doc" Charles grinned as he pulled out his butane light from the inner pocket and lit his Camel. He shoved the lighter into the opposite pocket of his jeans and practically skipped back to his seat on the couch to face Dr. Hahn.
He blew out a plume of smoke and smiled warmly.

"How was your week, Charles?" Hahn asked, looking down at his notepad and occasionally flicking his eyes up to his patient over thick rimmed glasses. For a moment Charles had to suppress the urge to laugh, because the man looked exactly like a stereotypical shrink. He was wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, a vest, thick rimmed glasses, and a pair of wool slacks. Hahn practically looked like he dressed himself to resemble Freud.

"Charles?"
"Oh sorry, I blanked for a second. Uhhh, my week was good I suppose; I didn't do much as far as going out aside from work, but I had some friends over on Tuesday and we watched some highlights from the Olympics."

Charles paused to tap the ash off of his cigarette into the quartz tray in front of him, leaning over slightly. He straightened back up and shuffled in his seat, pausing a moment before putting it back between his lips.

"After work on Thursday I went to a bar with my boss; she told me about her boyfriend and her and the trouble they're going through and I told her about Dianne."
"How did you feel after talking about her to this woman, your boss?"

Charles paused and looked over at his shrink (he'd spent most of his talking staring into that ashtray). Doctor Hahn had set his notebook down and was looking expectantly at him.

"I didn't feel any different than before. She told me that she was sorry to hear that, and that she'd lost her sister too. We're a hurt nation, doc; damn near everybody in New York lost somebody they knew and loved that day."

"How did that night end, Charles?"
"We just went our separate ways after that and I went home alone" Charles lied, "I spent the rest of the night on the internet."

"Charles, have you considered becoming romantic with this woman?"
"The thought's never even crossed my mind, doc." he lied again.

Hahn looked at him knowingly, and he diverted his gaze back to the ashtray. He leaned over and tapped the ash off again.

"I still miss my wife, Hahn. I know it's been nine years, and I know that I should have moved on by now, but I still ******** miss my wife. I've tried dating, you know that. Every time I look at a woman I either think that she's too much like Dianne or not enough like Dianne." Charles rambled out nervously, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

"It's okay Charles, I'm not judging you. Everybody experiences grief differently."

Charles sighed and slumped into his seat, the cigarette burning away into the filter in between his index and middle finger of his right hand.
"Doctor Hahn, you've been working with me since before it happened. I need your help, I'm tired of just coming in here and talking til I turn blue and then going home and feeling like nothing has changed."

"I've told you before, there is nothing I can do until you have accepted that you need help."
"Doc, I'm practically begging for it!"
"You are right now, but when you go home are you going to take down her picture? Are you going to take her clothes out of the closet? Charles are you going to take the steps to move on with your life?" Hahns' voice was getting more determined with every sentence, his pitch elevating.

"I... I don't know."
The cigarette went out, and just like that, so did Charles's will to talk.
The rest of the session was mundane, almost boring. He talked about work and television; about news and his coworkers obsessing over his new car. He spoke about everything that wasn't important to him, and glossed over the things that were.
Dianne never came back up, and although he knew that Hahn was getting tired of this dance he just couldn't bring himself to discuss her any further.

Time ran out, and they bid their farewells; Charles collected his coat and made his way outside (where the rain had finally let up).
He mulled the thought over in his head that if there was a rainbow when he looked up he would call Carmen, his boss. He would go home and donate Dianne's old clothing to the Haiti fund and put her picture in a scrapbook instead of hanging it on his wall in his bedroom. He told himself that if there was a rainbow: he would pull himself together and stop feeling like the towers had fallen yesterday.

He looked up.