COUPLES THERAPY by Saleah Yusuf

Couples therapy.

Two simple enough words if you are a simple enough person.

Unfortunately, I am not a simple person by any recognized standard. Or so my husband Cliff tells me whenever I decline to answer what he calls “reasonable emotional questions”, which usually arrive without warning and require information I do not consider appropriate for public release. Questions like what are you thinking right now?  Or why didn’t you tell me that? Or, my personal least favorite have you ever trusted me at all?

Cliff believes marriage is built on transparency. I believe marriage is built on discretion and always knowing when to refill the downstairs water dispenser.

I glance at him now, not all surprised to find him trying and failing to stare at me discreetly. No, stare is the wrong word. Cliff does not stare. Cliff observes. He watches the way people watch security footage when something has already gone wrong but they are still hoping it hasn’t gone wrong enough to require lengthy paperwork.

I smile at him ruefully. I wish things were different, but they aren’t. He looks relieved by this, unaware of the internal debate waging war within me. Sweet, ever so oblivious Cliff— it’s one of the main reasons why I married him.

He opens his mouth like he intends to say something honest and irreversible, but thankfully before he can begin, the door opens and the shrink overseeing the psych evaluation, Dr. Fatoyinbo, walks in wearing a red blazer so sharp it appears capable of cutting through dishonesty on contact. Her blue tortoiseshell glasses seem out of place in the cold, gray evaluation room—they look like glasses a boring, overly cheerful English teacher would wear. Not someone who calls people out on their bullshit for a living. Her hair is pulled into a low knot that suggests she has already solved three problems this morning and at least one of them left people in tears.

“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson,” she says stiffly. Not our real last name.

Cliff stands immediately. Of course he does; Cliff stands whenever authority acknowledges him. If someone shouted last call for passengers inside a burning building, he would still check his boarding pass before moving. I stand more slowly. I’m not at all looking forward to this.

“No pressure,” I say in what I hope is an upbeat tone of voice. “Just another Wednesday afternoon where my subconscious becomes a shared workspace.”

“The procedure is painless,” Dr. Fatoyinbo says giving me what seems to be her impression of an encouraging smile. It’s stiff, like her posture.

I manage to bite back the sudden laughter that threatens to escape from my lips. But I’m unable to keep my eyes from widening incredulously. She thinks I’m worried about pain?

I quickly school my features back to my indifferent expression from earlier—my default expression. The one I’ve spent years perfecting. But Dr. Fatoyinbo notices anyway. Of course she does—shrinks notice everything.

“Well, if it isn’t the pain you’re worried about,” she says, “what is it?”

The truth is not an option.

“I’m just worried that you’ll all discover how boring I really am.” I mean for it to come out light and teasing, but my voice just doesn’t seem to be in the mood to cooperate with my brain today. It comes out a little whiny, and I shoot the psychologist in the glossy, red blazer an apologetic smile. She smiles back like someone who has heard that excuse many times and has never once believed it. Crap.

“Only you and your husband will see what’s inside your subconscious,” she says. “The session is private.”

While that does sound decidedly less crappy, it still does absolutely nothing to calm my racing heartbeat. Here goes nothing, I guess.

“And remember,” Dr. Fatoyinbo adds, looking directly at me now, “it’s your subconscious. You are in control.” Once again, this does nothing to reassure me.

“How does it end?” I ask no longer trying to hide my staring at the shrink’s office door—my way out of this impending mess.

“You’ll know,” she says. “When you’re ready to leave, you’ll leave.” What a spectacularly useless tip.

This sounds like something people say before something becomes difficult to leave. I look back at the large office door and sigh, officially resigned to my fate.

The procedure room is brighter than I expected.

Light comes from recessed panels in the ceiling that glow without buzzing. The floor is pale stone. The air smells faintly of citrus disinfectant and polished metal. Two reclining chairs sit side by side in the center of the room, angled slightly toward one another, and machines surround them in a loose semicircle. They hum the way expensive appliances hum when they’re new and haven’t been used much yet. Silver tubing runs between them in curved lines too deliberate to be accidental. The cables are transparent in places. Something inside them moves slowly, like light deciding where to go.

Standing there, looking at the wires, I decide that they look like tentacles. Wiry tentacles. And the thought makes my skin crawl. Cliff takes my hand while the monitors are attached.

“What are you thinking, babe?” he asks.

“You know what normal couples do to bond?” I say, looking anywhere but his open, reassuring face.

“What?”

“They go to Santorini.”

He nods. He’s used to my sass by now.

“They go to the Maldives.”

He squeezes my fingers, and I have to quell the strong urge to sock him in the jaw.

“They do not volunteer their subconscious for inspection.”

“This is bonding,” he says.

“This is an invasion of privacy,” I say.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Of course, you’ll be fine,” I snap, losing my patience. “You’re not the one whose mind is being put on display, like some kind of livestream.” But I don’t let go of his hand. In spite of all of this—my anxiety, my annoyance, all of it. I still hold his hand tight, and I refuse to meet his eyes when he squeezes my fingers again—tighter this time.

The machines hum differently. They sound like they’re coming closer. I look up, and sure enough, Dr. Fatoyinbo is wheeling the largest monitor in our direction. She’s already extending a few wire tentacles to Cliff, and I hold my breath as she approaches me.

“You’ll be fine, Jane. Remember—you’re in control.”

And then we are standing somewhere else.

The hallway is long enough that the end of it feels theoretical. The ceiling is low. The lights are narrow fluorescent strips set too far apart to eliminate shadow. The walls are painted a tired cream color that has absorbed years of raised voices and disinfectant. The floor is linoleum. It shines in places where people walked often and dulls where they did not. There are doors on both sides. All closed—all identical.

The air smells like vinegar. Oh, no. This is the last place I wanted us to end up. I look around trying to find the nearest exit, because there’s no way I’m reliving this in front of Cliff.

“Babe? Do you recognize this place?” Cliff asks when he sees how wide my eyes must be.

The truth is not an option.

“No,” I say, and I internally curse at the slight quiver in my voice. Of course, I know this place. I lived here.

I take a step away from Cliff, trying to rack my brain for a way out of this memory.

“No,” I repeat. “We should leave.” Just then, someone coughs down the hall. It’s a miserable, wet cough. The kind of cough that does not expect relief.

“Who’s that?” Cliff asks, looking at me suspiciously.

“No one,” I answer back too quickly. Crap, crap, crap! How the hell do I get us out of here? A little girl runs past us before either of us can move. She is crying too hard to see anything properly. Her hair is tied in two uneven puffs. Her slippers slap against the floor as she runs. She does not notice us. Children rarely notice observers.

“Mommy,” she is saying.

“Mommy.” She disappears through a door at the end of the hall. Three armed men follow her. They appear without transition, as if they had been there all along and we simply failed to notice them until now. They lift her. She screams louder.

Cliff turns toward me slowly.

“Wait, is that—”

“I want to leave, now” I say. My voice sounds wobbly now—like it belongs to someone who’s about to cry.

The hallway disappears.

The office is cold. Air-conditioned. Still.

Rows of cubicles stretch outward in perfect alignment. Each desk holds a computer monitor that reflects only itself. Chairs are pushed in neatly. A calendar on one wall still shows a date from several years ago. The place looks paused rather than abandoned.

I bend forward slightly. Hands on my knees, breathing carefully.

“This is not happening,” I say. Cliff watches me the way animal handlers watch newly rescued, wild animals.

“All I want,” he says, his voice sounding faraway, “is to know you.”

At that, I straighten quickly, opening the nearest drawer. Empty. Crap.

Second drawer. Empty. Crap, crap, crap!

Third drawer. Locked. What the actual hell?

“Where is it?” I whisper furiously.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Where is it?

“Jane.”

Something in Cliff’s voice makes me pause. There is a click behind me.

I turn fast enough to give a regular person whiplash. But I’m anything but regular.

Cliff is holding a pistol. But what really gets me is the look on his face. My husband no longer looks confused. He does not even look surprised. He looks certain.

“Looking for this?” he asks, wagging the gun in my face while, with his free hand, he lifts a paperweight off the desk beside him, and calmly pockets a fresh cartridge of bullets.

The problem is not the gun. The problem is that he recognizes where we are.

“You didn’t think I would recognize your headquarters,” he says, and I can almost swear that I hear a slight chuckle in his voice. Well, I’m glad one of us finds this amusing. I, meanwhile, can’t stop staring at the gun in his hand. The gun currently pointed righted at my chest.

“You tried to bring me to LOTUS.”

“No,” I say.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Sit down,” he says, gruffly. I’ve never heard Cliff be gruff with anyone before, much less with me. I curse internally at the pang the thought sends through my chest. Idiot. Now is not the time to be heartbroken.

I tap my fingers once against the desk. Dr. Fatoyinbo’s voice returns to me. You are in control.

I snap my fingers.

The office disappears. Now we are in a study. I smile for the first time since we stepped into my subconscious.

This room is a lot smaller than the others. Warmer. Wood-paneled. Bookshelves line two walls. The books are not arranged by topic or author. They are arranged by height. Someone cared about symmetry here. A desk sits in the center of the room. It’s so big, it blocks out almost half of the small space.

Cliff is sitting in the equally large desk chair. His wrists are bound in fluffy, pink handcuffs. He looks down at them. Then at me.

“What are you doing?” he asks. His voice is calm. I can’t believe I used to find that comforting barely an hour ago. Now, all it does is make my chest tighten and my stomach lurch.

I pick up the hunting rifle resting comfortably against the desk as though it belongs there. Now, we’re talking.

“Dear husband,” I say, making sure to aim it right between his eyes, “I think I’ll be asking the questions now.”

He exhales, and tenses his jaw, looking like he’s trying to mentally talk himself down from a tantrum. I’ve never seen this version of Cliff before, and it makes me uneasy.  I grip the gun tighter.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

“You mean how long I’ve known you work for LOTUS?”

“Yes.”

“Since the beginning.”

I blink. Not so oblivious after all, I guess.

“Your turn,” he says. “How long have you known I work for ARCHER?”

“Before we met,” I say, trying and failing to keep the hurt I’m feeling in my chest from spilling into my voice. Crap.

Cliff raises his eyes to meet mine, and his face softens ever so slightly. He looks like he’s about to say something with the intention of calming my nerves.

“Don’t you dare,” I say. My voice is breaking now. Great.

“Babe—"

“You were my assignment,” I say quickly, wanting to get him mad again.

Silence. The man I thought I knew inside and out studies me. His jaw tenses again.

“I married you,” he says slowly.

“Yes.”

“I introduced you to my family.”

“Yes.”

“They were my real family.”

And that is when I understand something has gone very, very wrong.

Cliff does not move after he says it. He just watches me, like he’s waiting for me to self-destruct.

“They were my real family.” He says it the way someone says something factual and proven by science.

There are sentences that rearrange a marriage all by themselves. This is one of them.

I am still holding the rifle. It feels heavier now, though it weighs exactly what it did before. That is one of the inconveniences of emotional clarity. Everything suddenly feels different. I unconsciously start to lower the weapon, then catch myself and hoist it back up—this time aiming it in the center of Cliff’s chest. I blink several times, unsure what to do with this new information I’ve just been given. Not for the first time this afternoon, I wish that things were different. Unfortunately for us both, they are not.

“They weren’t assets,” he continues, his eyes narrowing at me in suspicion. “They weren’t decoys. They were my parents.”

Unable to maintain eye contact with my husband any longer, I let my gaze wander around the small space that we’re in. The study remains very tidy around us. The shelves are still arranged by height. The curtains are drawn halfway, allowing a controlled amount of daylight to enter the room. A brass desk lamp sits on the corner of the table though it is not switched on. I find it so strange how the room manages to remain exactly the same, while my entire life is unfolding right in front of me. Crap.

Finally, I cave. “I reported them.”

Cliff closes his eyes briefly. I hear him curse under his breath, and for some reason it triggers a prickly wave of tears to my eyes. I blink them away quickly. Crying isn’t going to accomplish anything right now.

“I thought they were part of your legend,” I say shakily, still looking everywhere but at the man handcuffed to the desk chair. This sounds smaller than I intend.

“Who introduces their actual family during surveillance operations?” I ask, trying not to cry.

“I do,” he says. There is a pause long enough for something else to arrive between us. Something neither of us names.

“You filed the report,” he says eventually.

“Yes.”

“You know what happens after you file a report.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t check.”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” I say automatically, suddenly annoyed. Why is this my fault? Who the hell introduces their real family to assigned marks?

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” I repeat. I can hear the irritation in my tone, and from the way Cliff’s eyes sharply cut to me, I know he hears it too. He studies me like he’s seeing something new instead of something hidden.  Before either of us can decide what any of this means, the study door bursts open.

Five men step inside. Black uniforms. Clean boots. Weapons raised with the relaxed confidence of people who expect compliance.

This isn’t a part of this memory.

“Hands behind your head,” one of them says, Glock 19 raised and ready to fire.

Cliff exhales, looking down at his handcuffed wrists.

“Well, that’s inconvenient.”

I snap my fingers.

The stadium arrives instantly. It’s empty. Thank God.

Floodlights hum overhead even though the sky is bright enough not to require them. Rows of red seats rise around us in widening curves. The grass beneath our feet is too green. Too even. Sound travels differently here. Every step feels louder than it should.

Cliff turns slowly in a circle. “What are we doing here?” he asks impatiently.

“I needed space,” I say. I can feel the blood in my ears, and I’m not entirely sure a mild stroke is out of the question right now, given how frazzled my nerves have been all day.

“This is too much space.”

“You don’t say.” I’m aware that I’m being a dick right now, but I can’t bring myself to care. Cliff doesn’t spare me a second glance—he just continues looking around the field. Like I said earlier, he’s used to my sass. I’m about to apologize, when I catch something move out of the corner of my eye.

“We’ve got company. Again,” Cliff says already reaching for my hand. I turn around fully and groan. Armed men appear along the edges of the field. Not all at once—one at a time. Then another, then another. They spread outward in a loose semicircle that suggests they have all day to do whatever it is they’re here for.

“They’re following us,” Cliff says, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from indulging in another snarky retort.

“I wonder why,” I say instead.

“It’s your subconscious,” he says, looking at me like I’m slow. “You made them.”

I wonder why I was holding my tongue earlier.

“I did not make the armed mercenaries trying to kill us.”

“They’re obviously part of something you’re avoiding.”

“I am not avoiding anything.” How dare he? And here I was feeling bad about possibly getting his parents kidnapped. Or worse. I quickly steer my thoughts away from that particular path, and instead, back to the matter at hand.

“— relocated us to a stadium.”

I blink, suddenly aware that Cliff has been talking all this time. He looks at me for a moment.

“You turned your childhood into armed men,” he says. I’m not sure what, but I assume we’re still on the subject of my alleged avoidance.

“That feels reductive.”

The first mercenary reaches us before the rest. Cliff moves immediately. He always does. He steps forward, catches the man’s wrist mid-raise, pivots, and sends him sideways into the grass with the efficiency of someone who has done this before without needing to think about it.

I duck automatically as another swings toward me. Reflex is a kind of honesty. I step behind him and remove his balance rather than his weapon. He collapses with more surprise than resistance.

“This is a terrible bonding exercise,” I say.

“You chose the venue,” Cliff says.

“I did not choose the venue.”

“I mean, you’re technically hosting.”

“Can you please stop saying that?”

Another man approaches. I snap my fingers. The grass disappears beneath his feet just long enough for him to fall through nothing and then return to existence face-first.

Cliff pauses mid-motion. “That’s useful,” he says, looking mildly impressed.

“I’m trying,” I say. The pressure in my ears just keeps building. Please don’t let me die here, trapped in my own subconscious. Quick, long buried memories of candles and anointing oil flash through my mind. Please.

More men are approaching now. More footsteps. More uniforms.

“Jane? Now would be a good time to leave.”

“I don’t know how.” It’s taking all of my willpower not to cry right now.

“You’re in control.”

“I am trying to be less in control,” I say. “That’s why we came for this whole psych evaluation thing in the first place.”

“This is not the time for growth. I beg you.”

“I disagree.”

Another shot cracks across the stadium. Cliff grabs my wrist. “Now,” he says.

“I’m thinking,” I yell.

“Well, think faster.”

“I’m thinking at a reasonable pace.” Another shot lands closer.

“Jane.”

“Fine.”

I snap my fingers again.

The hallway returns, exactly as we left it. Same light. Same doors. Same cough. Except now we are closer to the room.

Cliff’s hand tightens around my wrist. “We don’t need to be here,” he says.

“I know,” I say. But I’m already walking. The door is open. Inside, the room smells the same. Antiseptic. Lemon water. Metal.

A single bed stands against the wall. The sheet is folded too carefully. A plastic chair sits beside it. Someone once slept in that chair without admitting they were tired. The woman in the bed is smaller than I remember. This is new; she used to be the largest person in every room I entered, and now she fits inside the bed like someone who is already halfway gone.

A doctor stands beside her. He folds the sheet with professional precision before lifting it over her face.

“No,” I say, reaching for her, even though I know they can’t see me. Cliff’s grip tightens on my arm.

“Jane,” he says quietly. “We should leave.”

“I wasn’t there,” I say, not bothering to stop the tears now.

“I know.”

“I wasn’t there,” I repeat. The sentence lands differently the second time.

“I missed it.”

Just then, armed men enter behind us, because of course they do. Right now, it seems like they always do.

Cliff steps between them and me automatically.

“Now,” he says. “We leave now.”

I don’t move. Because this is the last moment before everything changed, and I have avoided it long enough that it has started waiting for me.

“Mommy,” I say, tears streaming down my face. The word surprises me. It sounds smaller than I expected.

Cliff squeezes my hand. “Jane,” he says again. “Come back.”

Something inside me shifts. I close my eyes, and everything collapses.

The therapy room returns in pieces. Light first, then sound. Then the chair beneath me. Then the wires attached to my wrists and temples and throat.

The machines are still humming. Cliff is breathing harder than he should be. We look at each other, just as the door opens. Men are already inside. Real men this time. Can’t a girl catch a break? Weapons raised. No explanation offered.

“Move,” one of them says. Cliff removes the wires first. Of course he does. I remove mine second. Of course I do.

The room changes immediately. Someone moves toward us, but Cliff moves faster. He catches the man’s arm before the weapon finishes lifting and redirects the momentum into the nearest machine. It collapses with a sound that suggests it was expensive.

I stand. Someone else reaches for me. I step sideways instead of backward. Training is a difficult habit to unlearn. We move through the room without speaking. We have done this before. Just not together.

The hallway outside is narrower than I expected. White walls. Low ceiling. Security cameras placed at regular intervals that suggest planning rather than decoration. An alarm begins somewhere behind us. Too late to matter.

“Bomb,” Cliff says suddenly, stopping in his tracks.

“What?”

“Lower level. Emergency protocol.”

“You’re just telling me this now?”

“I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“I was not trying to kill you.” How dare he?

“Jury’s still out on that one, babe.” There’s a mischievous glint in Cliff’s eyes, and I’m startled by how much that calms my nerves. Now is not the time to be falling back in love—focus.

We reach the stairwell. Concrete steps. Metal railing. No windows. He moves faster now. There is a control panel beside the second landing. Cliff opens it without hesitation. He works quickly, pulling wires and pressing buttons.

“Done,” he says, “Let’s go.”

We don’t stop running until we’re out the exit door, and in the evening breeze.

I take a deep breath, happy to be back in the real world. I take in the humid air. The traffic noise. The sound of someone arguing somewhere nearby about fuel prices. There’s a lady selling roasted corn beside the gate like nothing unusual has happened today.

The explosion arrives behind us seconds later. Loud enough to confirm intention. We don’t look back. We don’t need to.

Cliff spots the taxi first. He pulls the driver out carefully, like we’re borrowing the bright yellow sedan rather than stealing it.

“I’ll bring it back,” he tells him. We both know that Cliff will do no such thing.

He gets behind the wheel, and I sit beside him. We are moving before I close the door.

“They’re coming after you,” he says, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“They always are,” I say.

“No,” he says, looking at me this time. “ARCHER specifically.”

I look at him. Now, that’s a first.

“Why?”

“Because your agency flagged you for termination.”

“That feels excessive.” I say it with a straight face, but I’m absolutely freaking out on the inside. Suddenly, the ringing in my ears is back.

But Cliff is still talking. “They think you compromised the mission.”

“No, I didn’t.” What the hell?

“You married the mission.” Oh. Crap.

“That’s not the same thing.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at me either.

We drive through traffic that continues behaving normally. People cross roads. Someone buys plantain chips from a roadside hawker.

No one looks at us in our newly stolen taxi.

“We have to find them,” I say.

“I know,” he says, finally looking at me.

We drive for a while without speaking, until eventually he glances at me again.

“So,” he says. I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s smiling.

“Yes?”

“What’s your real name, anyway?”

I look at him. Then at the road straight ahead.

I smile.

And don’t tell him.

Saleah Yusuf is a Nigerian writer whose fiction explores intimacy, secrecy, and the unexpected spaces where love and identity collide. She previously wrote psychological and speculative horror and is now experimenting with romance and relationship-centered stories. Her work often blends emotional realism with subtle strangeness. She is currently at work on a collection of short fiction.