Research, observe, interview, diagnose, and document. Those are the job specs for a psychiatrist for the criminally insane and Veronica Swan can carry out her duties with her eyes closed. She loves her job. She has acquired a fondness for human oddities and bizarre tales. Her office is the Chicago mecca for all things weird.
Just today a contractor shot his wife to protect his cat, an (self-proclaimed) alien was suspected of murdering another alien from a rival planet, and a scrawny insurance adjuster argued self-defense after stabbing a female body builder claiming she raped him.
Then there was Trix, the aging prostitute with the bad dye job and the crayola brows. Practically a daily fixture in Veronica's office, it's always interesting to see what emotion Trix will draw on her face misusing her black eyebrow pencil. Today her Groucho lines extended from the bridge of her nose and shot straight across to her temples.
She looked angry. And so she should. Trix offered information on a rash of murdered Johns after she was arrested (again) for solicitation. Her defense? Therapy, sex therapy. She sat-bikini brief clad crotch fully exposed-and declared she is an upstanding citizen of the US whose only crime is assisting men -and women if the price is right- in improving their relations with girlfriends and wives, clinical license be damned.
The kicker is that all these crazies look benign when compared to the idiosyncrasies of Veronica's football star boyfriend, Ignatius Bryant. Ignatius, Iggy as she affectionately calls him, is known as much for his skill on artificial turf as he is for his hardy perennials of getting into pickles. She's dated the football player for close to a year but known him for over three years. She'd met him when a stalker fan was caught in his home and she was charged with assessing whether the intruder was competent to stand trial.
Once the trial was completed and the perpetrator put behind bars Iggy pounced. He'd sent her flowers, singing telegrams, skywritten messages every. single. day. until she agreed to go out with him. She did agree finally and they've been inseparable ever since. Of course he inspires her to madness but he also keeps her laughing with his off the wall antics, makes her heart glow with his humility, makes her believe in fairytales again with his unmasked adoration of her.
She loves him.
She is a welcome contrast to the fraudulent complexities of his celebrity life. She is real, and compassionate, and passionate, and his.
He loves her.
Veronica wonders silently what movie theater grandiosity he'll be spewing tonight as she hears the rattle of keys and sees the knob turn on her front door.
She is sitting at her breakfast counter, book open, glass of wine, completely immersed in her nightly ritual, focused doggedly on the story unfolding before her. Of course Iggy comes in talkative, seemingly obliviously to the way his unexpected arrival is affecting her. He hangs his jacket, toes off his shoes, plants a quick kiss on her cheek rambling the whole time, which only serves to annoy her further.
She shifts irritably on her stool, her concentration waning. The literary heroine has just fallen down a steep hill in the middle of a snowstorm, she's all alone, and Veronica can't seem to get past a sentence she's read three times since he walked in because he's babbling something about rabbit food and hammers.
She reads the line again but is too fed up to continue, bookmarks the page, pushes the book aside with a disgusted, 'ugh'.
"What are you doing here Iggy," she asks. He's moved to the kitchen area behind her, scanning the refrigerator for treats.
"I thought I'd stay here tonight," he responds, settling on some baby carrots, stealing a sip of her wine. "My agent is driving me nuts."
'I know the feeling', she thinks silently. "Ignatius! Do you not remember last night? I didn't get to bed until after 4 this morning thanks to you," she says through gritted teeth, the dressing on his hand and scratch under his eye a visible reminder of her long night.
