A few days before I went to your house, on a Tuesday, I waited at Kaffebrenneriet from three thirty. I’d finished my tall white Americano by the time you arrived, just after four. By then, I knew that Tuesdays were exhausting for you, with clients back-to-back from ten until four, which is why I chose that day because I knew that you always stopped for a coffee after work, drinking it in the café instead of taking it to go like you normally do. It was a beautiful, hot day in late spring and I worried that you’d choose to sit outside on one of the little wrought-iron tables; one was free, but you didn’t – you chose your usual seat at the back of the café, a barstool facing the wall. Your face was peaceful, serene, unsuspecting. I had a watertight plan I’d run through in my head over and over in the event of you suddenly glancing over to where I sat at a table just behind you. I’d simply smile shyly and say, ‘Hi’. After all, why would it be strange that we should bump into each other there, at a popular café equidistant between your office and my house? It would only seem strange if I made it seem strange.

You didn’t look over. Not then, nor any of the other times I observed you from less than two meters away at that same coffee shop. As far as I’m aware, you only ever saw me once outside of the therapy room, an episode I’m sure you’ll recall. And even then, it didn’t seem like you were remotely suspicious; you acted discreet and professional, like I knew you would, most likely assuming that us both being in that particular place was just a coincidence, albeit a big one.

You read the previous week’s A-Magasinet and ate an oat cookie alongside your coffee. On the floor, next to your barstool, stood your Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag. It was exactly identical to my own, purchased especially for that reason. Extreme, I know. But I’m sure I’m not the first client who has tried to emulate your style; after all, it’s quite the conformist Oslo West look you go for – inoffensive, quietly expensive, discreet. Like you. Tailored Prada, classic Louis, a glimpse of Hermès on your wrist.

Back to those moments. You’d placed your bag on the floor. Who would do such a thing, some might ask, but that’s Oslo West for you. Nobody would steal your Louis Vuitton bag, because they all have their own. Lol. I pushed my identical bag close to yours very slowly. I’d endlessly rehearsed what I would do if I got caught, of course. It would be very obvious that I hadn’t taken your bag on purpose, it was an honest mistake.