"What is my face saying?”
“That you’re angry.”
I curl one side of my mouth into a tight smirk. “Huh. And here I thought your job was to not make me angry.”
“My job isn’t tonotmake you angry. My job is to fix the problem that’s causing the anger.”
“Well, then you should really think about redecorating your office. And not asking questions that have nothing to do with anything.”
“So you don’t like being asked questions?”
“Not particularly, no.”
She nods. “What about them pisses you off, exactly?”
“The fact that they’re stupid and irrelevant.”
She hums and this time she writes something in her notebook.
“What the fuck are you writing?” I can’t help but ask.
She parts her lips in an O. “Was that a question?”
“That’s definitely not an answer.”
She laughs again.
I just lose it then.
Because her laughter is loud. Her jewelry is even louder.
And I can’t control my temper when my skin is crawling and my body is tight and I have this urge to break her furniture.
“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I clip.
“Why do you think that?”
Another stupid question.
“Because I don’t think you understand what your job is.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Yourjobis to give me tools to curb my anger. That’s it. That’s all. You tell me a few little tricks that I can use to get rid of this anger so I can go back to playing the game that I’m good at. That’s your job description.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Well then, you’re no use to me.” I spring up from my seat, my body all hot and tight, and glance around her office. I focus on the degree that’s hanging on her wall. “You should take that down. And probably ask for a refund from Harvard. Given the circumstances, you should be eligible for one.”
That’s all I say to her before I storm out of her pink fucking office.
I’m going to have to call my manager and have him arrange my appointments with someone else. Someone more competent and professional.
Someone who doesn’t ask stupid questions. Someone who doesn’t talk about things I don’t want to talk about.
Why does she want to know what happened anyway? It happened.
End of fucking story.
