The Quiet Man

Forty-Three Minutes

“So.” She rests her hands over her notes, her fingers flat against the page. They’re slim and warm brown. She has pretty, oval fingernails, always clean. Not bitten or ragged, with no bits of torn skin around the edges. No visible cuticles. She’s fastidious, I’d say. She doesn’t work with her hands. She doesn’t do any heavy lifting, nothing dusty or dirty. If you were here, you would say: you hardly need to deduce the profession of your therapist, John.

I know, Sherlock. I know.

It’s just easier to be here if I only look at her hands. If I try and think like you do. Like you did.

She splays her fingers out as if she expects me to stare at them. By now, I expect, she does.

I reckon she doesn’t even wash dishes. She probably has a boyfriend who does that. Loads up a dishwasher. Puts them back into a cupboard. Maybe a girlfriend: I don’t know. I can’t tell. I never can. How could he always tell? Clothing? Product? I don’t know. It never made any sense to me.

What can I tell about her?

Her fingernails are manicured, polished, but only ever with clear varnish. Professional, not flashy. It’s kind of a neutral statement, wouldn’t you say? Clear nail varnish? What’s the point of it? It’s perfect varnish, too. Not like Harry’s. No fingerprints, no chips. Not ever. Not since I’ve been sitting here across from her, at least. Not that I’ve noticed. So that’s patience, isn’t it. Painting nail by nail, waiting for each one to dry before doing the next. She must be very patient. With nail varnish, if not with me.

Or: I suppose she has her nails done. Someone else paints them for her. It’s someone else’s patience I’m looking at. That’s more likely, isn’t it, Sherlock? Don’t laugh.

Of course it’s more likely. I don’t know need to hear him say it. I don’t need to see that amused and slightly horrified look on his face. Watching the monkey trying to wear a pair of shoes or something: so funny, isn’t it, Sherlock. That condescending smile of his, no. I don’t need to see that again.

Oh God, of course I do. I need to see it. I want to. This hurts.

Don’t think about it. Christ. Stop it. Just: stop.

Perfectly flat white ceiling. No: there was a bit of damp on the corner, by the window. It’s been painted over. But it’s still there. Spot on the rug behind her chair: a cup of coffee spilled there, maybe. Cup of tea. Hard to say. Hard for me to say, anyway.

Come on. Pay attention. She’s trying to get started, she’s going to say something, she’s going to ask. How I am. What I’ve been doing. She’s going to ask about you, but there’s nothing left to say. Be normal. Be average. Smile for a second, make it look like you’re trying. Look up at her face for good measure. Just for a second. No blood. No broken skull. No dead eyes.

Stop.

Don’t.

Sometimes all I can hear is my own breathing.

Her eyes are always watching me. Judging me. She notices every fidget, so I don’t fidget. I don’t want to be too readable. I’m transparent enough as it is without making myself more obvious. I don’t want to make it so easy for her.

God. It’s not a game. I forget that it’s not. It’s not a game anymore, anyway. It’s a joke. But there’s no punchline, is there. No. There’s nothing.

It’s just this: talking. About nothing. Talking shit. Her skin obscures the last word on the page, but I know what it is. It’s progress. Written in blue ink. In cursive.

So she’s noticed that it’s harder for me to read upside down if she writes it in tiny, tight cursive. Did she notice? Or is it a coincidence? I don’t know. Progress. As in: I’m not making any.