Work In Progress Short Story: Part 1

I’ve begun a short story. Yeah, that’s about it. Here’s the rough draft/preview/whatever. Leave comments/criticism please. E-mail alexandra.coffin@yahoo.com with comments, preferrably.
The sirens had, once again, awoken Russel Rowan from the restless stupor he was forced to call sleep. He remembered with a groan that he had, yet again, left the window of his West Hollywood apartment open. The usually intriguing sounds of Southern California night life only counted as noise now. He hadn’t meant to leave it open; he had fallen asleep re-reading a Henry Miller novel. As he got up to shut out the clamor outside, he settled in for yet another sleepless night. He touched the computer mouse and squinted as it popped to life, the black pools of his pupils widening in their ring of stone grey.
A popping noise coming from the speakers notified him of new e-mails, mostly spam. Fake ads for Viagra and falsified bankers offering large sums of money, false hope of personal contact compacted and tucked into a convenient pop-up located right above the time in the lower right of his computer screen.
Glowing white numbers read 2:18, far too late for Russel to make important calls, and much too early for breakfast. Not that he could eat-he only ate when he had to. It was no longer enjoyable, just necessary.
He stretched out on his couch, preparing for another few hours watching night- and day-light traverse the expanse of his cracked popcorn ceiling and reflecting on his dim history. In the 25 years since he had come to the United States, his practice had taken off. Still, he knew that was all it was.
“Practice, practice, practice,” he said aloud. “What am I even practicing for?”
He was a psychotherapist, a fact he considered absurdly ironic. How had someone as hopeless as he ended up a so-called miracle worker?
Americans found his British accent soothing, and thought him as such-a genius, a miracle worker. Though he had no true credentials, most of his patients called him “Doctor” Rowan.
He scoffed bitterly at that fact. Secretly, he only knew the right answers because he had tried most of the wrong ones. His only redemption for his misdeeds was to leave his patients with the insight and clarification to make the best choices they could.
“After all,” he said to his ceiling fan. “That’s what life is. Every action is a choice. What you think, how you think, affects those choices you make, You could be gay all your life, but not make a single gay lifestyle choice. You could grow up, have kids and a wife and be a boy scouts leader. That’s what a choice-”
His rambling monologue was interrupted by the pinging of his computer. He adjusted his eyes to the computer screen and strained to read the small pop-up. A name he didn’t recognize was etched in small type above the time. 90% chance it was spam, but not even internet thrashers worked this late.

Message from: Anna Johnson-No Subject

Spam always had a subject.

He clicked the envelope icon, completely unprepared for its contents.
The letter was from a hopeful patient, written with a flourish he hadn’t seen since college. 

Dear Mr. Rowan-
My name is Anna. I’ve spent the past two weeks searching for a psychotherapist at the oblivion of my friends and family. After a frustrating Google search, I found your website and felt the compelling urge to send you this e-mail. I may not be able to pay you, and it is of the utmost importance that I can trust you with confidentiality. I feel, however, that my demands, if not met with one session, will eventually bend under the weight of the necessity for your services.

Thank You,
Anna Johnson

His mouth gaped open, reflected in the computer monitor next to her words.

As the shock of the letter wore off, he began to analyze himself, as he often had to.
“Why the hell am I freaking out?” he asked a day-old coffee cup sitting next to his keyboard.
Its porcelain maw gaped back, only silence coming from its static, brown-stained lips. He threw his head back in frustration. His imagination was running away with him again, and Russel, as he often did after reading books of fiction, began to visualize this woman. The mere name, “Anna Johnson,” could’ve hinted at anyone-an old woman, bones and joints stubborn and stiff with age, a schoolgirl playing in the park he used to walk through in England-yet he saw a strong, confident brunette, hair down to her shoulders, with caring eyes. As he walked toward her behind his closed eyelids, he noted her gait, lined with confidence and pride, every word escaping her mouth as intricate and intelligent and intimate as the way she had written the e-mail.

And it had completely mystified him why such a woman would need professional help.

“God, get a hold of yourself, Russel!” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a damn e-mail! You’re probably completely wrong about this woman! You know nothing of her!”
His watch beeped in the next room, marking the hour. It was then that he remembered the time-3:00 AM-and that she had sent the e-mail at 2:30. Definite indication of insomnia, which, of course, meant that this woman was not the pinnacle of perfection he had imagined. He then scoffed at the irony of his profession for the countless time that night, and prepared his reply.

5:00 PM. Saturday. Complimentary appointment. Address is on my website.

That was all he had written. Usually, he attached form after form of information and questionnaires for new clients in order to have a starting point at which he could organize treatment. He also never worked on Saturday, and complimentary appointments were rare. Yet he was so inexplicably intrigued by her e-mail, he decided anticipate the surprise after finding out how wrong-or right-he was.
He then found himself in bed, where Russel Rowan slept soundly straight through the morning, awakening to the sound of the intercom buzzer…