No. Of course it's not.
My eyes land on her teeth, which she's busy sucking air through.
“Doctor Richardson, are you listening toanythingI am saying to you?” Sarah says before a pained grimace momentarily contorts her features. Her arm snaps around her stomach, and her lips form an “O” shape.
She tosses me an embarrassed look, forcing me to take pity on her. I don't meet her eyes and acknowledge I saw this embarrassing-to-her moment, but rather busy myself reaching forward, slowly shuffling the papers together. Propping anelbow on the arm of my chair, I hold them up between us, turning to give her my side profile and to get the vision of her out of my eyesight. Ah. That might explain it…
It’s not my business if she’s on her period or not.
I think to myself as I read the papers slow enough that I can thoroughly memorize every line of her notes and the slant of her writing. She likes a fine tip pen, which is nice. She's got elegant handwriting, and my eyes eat up the embellished calligraphy with pleasure.
Painfully aware I’ve said less than forty words since she's been here, I keep my eyes glued to the papers, not trusting myself to speak. This is not like me at all. I can speak in a room of thousands, in a room of one, and everything in between.
A detail in her notes catches my attention, and I frown slightly, pausing as I get to the last page, giving it about three times more attention than I did the others. I put that one down, too, jiggling my mouse to wake up my computer and using my left hand to type the password.
A quick glance over shows me her cheeks are flushed pink. My eyes slide back to my screen and I pause again, wondering why.
Staring at the screen for a second, I take a steadying breath before I click the client’s folder open and begin to peruse through the multiple clinical notes I'd written. Maximizing one, I clear my throat, moving the papers around until I find the page I want and compare it to what I'd documented on our client.
“Hmm,”I say contemplatively.
She's correct.
“What’shm? What does that mean? Do you not know how to talk? How are you a psychiatrist who doesn’t know how to talk?” she scoffs as a frown tips the corners of her lips down.
I note that she doesn’t say it in a nasty way. She's been genuine so far with the questions she’d asked, and I'm sure I'm confusingher because she's also correct in this instance as well. I’ve barely said anything to her since she got into my office.
I put the papers down and swivel my chair back to face her.
“Why are you sobothered, Sarah B. Johnson?” I ask smoothly,anythingfor an excuse to say her name. It rolls off my tongue like sin, and I grin as a sharply winged eyebrow rises when her eyes lock on mine in our first true time making eye contact, and I amlost.
Such fucking beautiful eyes.So soulful.
Her mouth drops open slightly as a breath catches in her throat, but she recovers quickly. “That issucha male thing to say,” she responds softly.
Disappointment colors her tone at the same time it colors my heart blue with hurting her feelings.
"I apologize," I reply, keeping her eye contact while I hold out the papers for her to grab.
As usual, she's right about the client, but I don't admit this to her right away. I want to push her buttons and keep her here longer to find out what's wrong. It might be presumptuous of me, but I wonder if there's a way I can be of help to her.
“I think we need to discuss this more,” I say simply. “I'm curious, Sarah, because you seem to feel like you know how to do a psychiatrist’s job better than I do?”
Sarah scrunches her nose, and her eyes flash with renewed irritation. I'm pleased to see some fight instead of the desolate spirit warring within her to override what I know to be her true nature. Don't ask me how I know this, but I do. This Sarah in front of me is not the Sarah that I've been engaging with the last couple of years.
“The last thing I need is anotherman–" Bingo– "trying to make things harder on me than it already is. We have a client who is needing help, not for thehelpersto engage in a pissingcontest. And I am not leaving until I am sure you will help him!” she spits out, slapping the papers rather rudely in front of me.
I have no clue why, but the need to see this woman broken, raw, and splayed open crashes over me in waves so tall I'm dwarfed with the sensation.
Her obvious distress in turn feeds my new feelings of anxiety; however, I force myself to sit here coolly and as if I'm unbothered. Feeling I'm overly tense, I relax my ankle over my knee and lean an elbow on the armrest of my chair. I continue to stare at her as I work to search within myself the reason for my need to know this woman with everything in me.
Maybe now is the time? Am I ready now?
Withher?
Contemplating this, I glance at the desktop where her nails are spread rather prettily over the notes, then back at her. My eyes pierce hers, observing how visibly tense she is, and it's interesting to see when the realization hits her that I see too much. Seeher,and she can't hide.
Willnothide from me.
