So tearfully gratifying was the promise of Aggie's
melodious humming it whisked away into its customary ignorable
background the interminable locust chorus. A downside accompanying
this positive note arrived with the voice of the shrink du
jour.
“What are you thinking?”
He flashed on the shrink, this one a youngish woman with
regular features spoiled by the pinched, nervous expression skin
would instinctively assume fighting a facelift. Her narrowed eyes
peered at him with rote interest. Annoyed on principle, he
nonetheless wanted to share the delight of his newfound joy. To this
end he smiled, shifted his glance with deliberation to her shapely
legs and back to her face.
“You really don't want to know.”
She tugged uselessly at the hem of her Confederate gray
skirt and swiveled her hips ever so slightly away. Her mouth twitched
a single instance, eyes relaxed a tad then retreated back to their
professional squint. A yawn stifled her sigh, fingers providing
genteel cover for both. Remnants of the sigh adhered to her vocal
response, softening the voice in a way not prescribed in training
texts. “But I do, Jack. It's what we're here for.”
The “we're” dispelled whatever reverie had seemed to
be forming. His irritation was sudden and visceral. He wanted to say
It may be what you are here for, lady, but I have no choice in the
matter. No fucking choice, and, oh, by the way, leave those legs of
yours here when you go. I'll tell them whatever they want to know.
Instead he said, “I'm scared of dying.”
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