She watches my mouth while I speak. Not my eyes. Not my hands. My mouth.
Her lashes lift. "You're very formal."
"This is an initial consultation."
Her lips form a soft pout that is entirely practiced. "Do you talk to all your patients like this?"
"Yes."
"Even the ones with blue hair?"
I admit, "I don't have any other clients with blue hair."
"Do you like it? I changed it last night. Did it myself." A dimple flashes at the corner of her cheek, an unexpectedly sweet detail that clashes with everything else about her.
She knows it's disarming.
She uses it with intention.
She's a fascinating creature.
Tread carefully.
I reply, "You're asking for personal preference."
"Personal preferences reveal things," she replies.
"Some things are not relevant here."
She tilts her head, studying me the way a cat studies a toy it wants to bat off a table. "I think you like it."
I redirect, "We're here to talk about you. Not about me."
Her shoulders rise slightly, the motion delicate, then relax. "Fine. What do you want to know? I'm an open book."
Sure, you are.
I open the folder on my lap. "Your parents told me you work in fashion."
She brightens instantly, the transformation almost theatrical. "My mother owns a fashion line. I design pieces. Mostly skirts and dresses. I do some custom work for friends. Oh, I post things online." She smiles sweetly, then rises. She walks to my desk and picks up my vintage hourglass. She tips it upside down and watches the sand fall.
I ask, "How long have you been doing that?"
"A few years," she says.
"You're twenty-five?"
"Almost twenty-six," she says, batting her eyes and flipping the hourglass over again.
The timeline contradicts the birthdate listed in the folder. Blue just turned twenty-five.
Inconsistency one.
I call her out on it. "Didn't you have a birthday last month?"
Blue blinks, expression unchanged. "Yes."
"So you aren't almost twenty-six."
