In The Psychiatrist's Chair

'So . . . ,' she said. It was her opening gambit. But the shrink remained silent, just continued to sit.
'Well then . . . ,' she proffered, trying again. Still no response, so she started counting to ten. She shifted on her seat and looked at the clock. She counted the seconds: tick-tock, tick-tock. She had yet to swear on a Bible, but she felt she was in the dock. Evidently, it was cards on the table if she were going to take stock; of the feelings she avoided because they filled her heart with dread. All the stuff she had buried in the hope it would lie dead.
'Ok,' she conceded. 'Guess it's up to me to proceed.' (Privately, now, she hoped the shrink would take pity, would take the lead.) But the shrink just sat, a blank expression of his face.  Until, suddenly he spoke:
'This is your time, your space. But, your time, by the way, is ticking away.'
And, that was the truth; they didn't have all day. Although she was expected to come back next week, there was no point just sitting here; she was obliged to speak. But while the thoughts in her head went round and round and round, she seemed - inconceivable for her - quite incapable of uttering a sound.