Free More Bitter Than Death by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff

heard the conversation, quickly downs the rest of her wine and sits up straight.
    “I’m keeping you,” she says. “I didn’t mean to. I’m going to go, but thank you for listening. And thanks for the wine.”
    She comes over and gives me a hug, repeating herself again.
    “Thank you. Thank you for listening.”

Aina is sitting at a dark-brown wooden table sipping a beer. She’s flipping through the culture section of the paper and I can tell she’s irritated. It’s hot and a little stuffy at the bar and the buzz of people’s conversations envelops me. The place smells like food and something else I can’t put my finger on. Most of the tables are taken and the customers look as if they’re seeking refuge from the cold and darkness outside, like castaways on a deserted island. I walk over to Aina and squeeze through the crowd to take a seat at the table. There is a large, full glass of wine at my place. Aina glances up. She looks like she’s trying to decide if she should be mad at me or forgive my lateness.
    “Check this out.” She gestures to the open page of the newspaper, where there’s a review of a new book by a therapist criticizing the increased focus in recent years on cognitive behavioral therapy and evidence-based methods in psychiatry. “I’m so tired of always being portrayed as some kind of robot therapist without the capacity for empathy or independent thought,” Aina continues. “Do they really think it’s possible to provide any kind of useful treatment without acknowledging the client’s history or previous experiences? Do they imagine that we just memorize some manual or something? It’s so weird. When I started practicing CBT, I always thought we were the good guys, that we were the ones who really listened to the patients and took their symptoms seriously, worked on what they really thought their problems were. But when I read stuff like this, I realize that these people think we’re the villains, the shallow ones, just in it for the short term and only interested in getting the biggest results in the shortest possible time, as if we don’t care about the people behind the results, as if we don’t see the suffering.”
    “Maybe we have only ourselves to blame.” I throw out the idea cautiously, curious to see Aina’s reaction.
    “And just what do you mean by that? Do you perhaps agree with our friend the analyst here?”
    “I just mean that we like to talk about results and how long treatment takes, tangible evidence and money, not so much about reducing human suffering—”
    “Now you sound just like them,” Aina protests.
    “I do not. I just don’t like the black-and-white thinking, not by the analysts and not by us.”
    Aina shakes her head and throws the paper aside. “Whatever. I ordered food too, meatballs. It’ll be here anytime. Why were you so late? I mean, how long does it take to load the dishwasher?” She studies me for a long time, without looking away, and then asks, “Have you been drinking? You have red wine at the corner of your mouth.”
    I instinctively raise my hand to cover my mouth, as if to hide any traces of my sin. Aina notices and smiles wryly.
    “Caught with your fingers in the cookie jar,” Aina says triumphantly. “You were drinking wine at the office? That is so wrong. Why? Did Sven come in or something?”
    I shake my head and realize that I don’t actually have any desire to tell Aina about Kattis. I just say, “Something came up, that’s all. It’s not like I planned it.”
    “And the thing that came up was . . . ?”
    “One of the women from the group,” I confess.
    “My dear Siri, could you be a little more forthcoming? I don’t want to have to coax every single word out of you.”
    She looks irritated again and I just want to appease her. I’m not up for dealing with an angry Aina tonight. I decide to tell her about Kattis but leave out the wine. I know that Aina won’t like it, as well she shouldn’t. Besides, I