Chapter Text
I. Let Me Tell You
Jennifer Melfi swirled the red wine in her glass and sipped it. Rioja. Full bodied, but subtle. Vanilla and cherry vying for her attention.
She was waiting patiently for her table to become available whilst stuck on a date with an ineffectual marriage counsellor. Why she kept picking men who insisted on taking her to fancy restaurants with a two month waiting list only to stand in line, like cattle, she couldn’t fathom. For what? To be seen in the right places, to say smugly at a dinner party, “Oh yes, we went there. Bit pedestrian, but the veal was excellent.”
To be honest, Jennifer would have been happy with a Chuck E Cheese right now, but there was no way she could suggest that to Ethan, whose middle-class sensibilities were starting to grate on her. Instead, she sipped her Rioja and tried to engage him in conversation that wasn’t about the inconsiderate nature of their fellow diners.
As Jennifer tried to draw him out of his ill-temper and rescue the evening, she felt tired. Even in her personal life she seemed destined to play the role of the rescuer. Sometimes it made her want to scream.
She’d felt discontent of late, but didn’t want to delve into those feelings - they would pass. She suspected what lay behind them and wasn’t prepared to explore the fact that she missed Anthony Soprano.
Elliot would have a field day.
It had been over a year since she’d last seen him, but Anthony had snuck into her mind more and more frequently over the last few weeks. She often (a little too often) found herself wondering what happened with A.J.
She’d seen snippets of news about RICO and it had left her restless. Her guilty conscience was playing havoc – as a result, she suffered from insomnia and, when she did dream, they were bleak and filled with Anthony running towards her as his house burned to the ground. Them making love, slow and purposefully, in the ashes. Who knows what Freud would make of that!
She’d abandoned him. Again. This time though, not only had he been in crisis, his whole family had in the aftermath of AJ’s suicide attempt.
Anthony had refused to take the contact details of the other therapist she’d recommended at their final session, so she’d emailed them to Carmela. She hadn’t wanted his family to suffer because he’d made her his unwitting accomplice for the best part of seven years.
Ethan was pontificating about the art exhibition he’d just seen at the Hot Sand gallery. Jennifer feigned interest and um-ed and ah-ed in all the right places. Ethan was pretentious, but good looking. They’d been set-up on a date by a mutual friend. Jennifer rarely got out, so consumed by her work and awkward hours. Ethan was comfortable, they shared the same references, had similar tastes... but he wasn’t Italian and that suddenly seemed important. Why was she dating a piasan? She smiled, unconsciously, at the thought of Anthony’s scorn.
Just then, as if she'd conjured him, the hulking form of Anthony Soprano strode past. Firm shoulders, receding hairline and looming presence.
Tony stopped dead, having clocked Melfi, and turned to face her. Their eyes met.
He marched up to her.
They gazed at each other for a moment, a charge in the air.
Jennifer suddenly filled with nerves, her mouth dry as a sense of dread washed over her, followed by an emotion she didn't want to acknowledge... excitement.
“Well look who it is,” Tony said lightly.
“Anthony.”
“Shoulda guessed I’d run into you at a hoity-toity restaurant.”
“I have good judgement,” Jennifer retorted.
Tony glanced at Ethan. “That’s questionable.”
“Excuse me?” Ethan bleated.
Tony smirked, ignoring him. “You look good,” he said to Melfi. “But sometimes it can be hard to tell a good apple from a rotten one.”
Jennifer tucked her brown hair behind her ear and swirled the wine in her glass. “How insightful, did you get that off the back of a cereal box?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Why, I oughta - ”
“Put your shoe up my ass?”
"Yeah!" he snapped.
“Resorting to violence? What a refreshing change.”
They glared at each other.
“You’re a real piece-a-work, ya know that? You fucked-up, not me, but I’m the asshole?” he barked.
The concierge moved towards them. “Your table is available Mr. Soprano. If you and your wife,” he indicated Melfi, “would like to - ”
“She ain’t my wife, she’s a schifosa!”
“My apologies,” the concierge backed off.
“And you’re a quell pasese!” Jennifer countered.
Tony and Melfi eyeballed each other, nostril’s flaring.
Ethan stared at Jennifer agog, he’d never seen this side of her before.
“Ya need psychological help, ya know that?” Tony spat.
Jennifer laughed heartily. “After treating you for six years, is it any wonder?”
Tony leaned in close to her. “Normally I’d take the bait, but I’ve been seein’ a shrink. He’s really helped me learn to control my temper, no matter how provoked. He’s better than the half-assed touchy-feely quack I had before.”
Jennifer’s temper flared. “I’m glad you’ve finally mastered the art of self-control,” she said and pursed her lips.
“Ah, there’s the puss face!” Tony reproached. “That I haven’t missed.”
“I doubt you truly miss anything – you have an antisocial personality with a side order of sociopathic tendencies.”
“And you’re a heartless bitch.”
The concierge looked about uncomfortably, unsure what to do, while Ethan gaped at Jennifer.
“Maybe your new found self-control needs work,” she suggested glibly.
Tony stepped even closer to her and Jennifer raised her face defiantly to his.
“I trusted you,” he hissed and his voice suddenly became full of hurt and she remembered how childlike he could be. His large brown eyes smarting with betrayal. “You let me down when I needed you, so you can go fuck yourself.”
Then he span on his heel and stormed out of the restaurant, the door swinging shut behind him.
Jennifer stared after him and deflated.
She'd been far too personally invested in him. She’d dropped him as a patient because she’d felt humiliated when she’d realised that he had taken her for a ride.
When she’d read the study by Yochelson and Samenow, she knew Elliott and her colleagues had been laughing behind her back. She still cringed when she thought of her last session with Anthony. She’d been sarcastic and dismissive and completely unprofessional. Melfi felt the pangs of guilt as she stared at the door through which Anthony had just stormed out.
The concierge returned to his post and Ethan regained his senses.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded.
Jennifer shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You could cut the tension with a knife. Who was that?”
Jennifer didn’t know how to explain her complicated relationship with Anthony and didn’t feel like elucidating for Ethan. Nice, squeaky clean, pretentious, boring Ethan, who suddenly seemed like a pale imitation of a man in the aftermath of the powerful alpha male that was Anthony Soprano.
Jennifer sighed. The evening was ruined and she knew she wouldn’t see Ethan again. She picked-up her purse, set down her wine glass and said. “Let’s go.”
II. When This War Is Over
Anthony stood at the foot of her bed. He bit into an apple and then held it out to her.
Jennifer glanced at it, tempting and luscious.
She was clad in skimpy lingerie. Felt vulnerable under his lust-filled gaze. She licked her lips and reached to take the apple, but before she could, she awoke with a start.
Jennifer lay in bed, light stealing in through the blinds, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d lost count of the dreams she’d had featuring Anthony Soprano. Some erotic, some scary, some guilt-laced. They all ended the same - with her a quivering mess.
It was a Sunday and her alarm was switched off. She got up anyway and made a pot of coffee.
Jennifer usually read the newspaper in bed on Sunday’s and called Jason, but the dream had unsettled her.
Sunday was the only day she took for herself, but today she needed a distraction, so she dressed and headed into her office.
Entering her office on a Sunday was disquieting. Melfi opened a window and welcomed the noise from the street: blaring music, the roar of cars and people chattering. She looked about her tidy, tastefully decorated office and, not for the first time, felt painfully isolated from the human race.
Jennifer liked her own company. She always had a pile of books to read, arthouse films to watch, dinner parties to attend and never found it difficult to find a date. However, on rare occasions, such as today, she felt an ache. For what - she didn’t know. Maybe it was seeing Anthony again. She’d only conversed with him for two minutes, but in that brief time, he’d caused a rush of adrenaline, a rage, a spark, and despite herself, she’d missed him. Missed the high that came from dealing with someone volatile and genuinely dangerous.
Jennifer was disappointed in herself. How cliché. Sad, middle-aged woman pines for excitement in her hum-drum life. Textbook.
She sat down at her desk and saw her answering machine was flashing.
Jennifer pressed play and leaned back in her swivel chair, elbows resting on the armrest, fingers steepled together as the first voicemail played.
“Hi. It’s me, Tony Soprano,” Anthony said gruffly.
Melfi stared at her answering machine. Her head told her to cut-off the message. Delete it. That he was just calling to rationalise his behaviour, but curiosity got the better of her (it always did where he was concerned).
“I was outta line last night. I’m sorry. When I saw you again, I didn’t want it to be like that,” he paused. “Ya did a shitty thing when you cut me off, ya know that? I was upset. But I shoulda never spoken to ya like that.” He took a pained breath. “At least I didn’t call you a cunt this time. That’s growth, right?”
Despite herself, Jennifer laughed.
“I hope you listen to this. I wouldn’t blame ya if ya didn’t, but we got history, you and me,” he paused. “I told my new therapist about my mother and it wasn’t the same. It’s just not. It feels like I was cheatin’ on you or somethin’.” He inhaled. “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this shit. You don’t care.” He sighed heavily. “Oh, fuck it. Have a good life Dr. Melfi. I won’t bother you again. Sorry for being an asshole.”
He hung-up and the message ended.
Jennifer leaned forward and pressed 'play' again.