Raising a Psychopath

SECOND

Hair? Check.
Lipstick? Check. 
Clothes? Check.
Heels...Heels?

In the midst of a hurried morning, the question echoed through my mind like a siren's call, "Heels...Where are my heels?" Time was a relentless adversary as I adjusted the folds of my dark, translucent burgundy blouse, catching my reflection in the mirror.
It was Thursday, a brief interlude in the rhythm of my visits to Roman —yesterday's meeting still lingered in my thoughts, and Monday promised another encounter. My schedule orbited around these visits, Mondays, Wednesdays, and the occasional Fridays when my calendar was clear of other patients. Roman was at the epicentre of my professional curiosity, a living study in the complexities of the human mind.

A knock at the door interrupted my reverie, propelling me into action. I navigated the staircase with a dancer's grace, slipping my feet into four-inch heels while warding off visions of a less-than-graceful descent. A final, fleeting glance in the hallway mirror allowed me to scrutinize my appearance, a ritual of self-assurance before stepping into the day.

Opening the door revealed Greg, his presence marked by the golden halo of his hair and the familiar offering of a rose — a gesture as predictable as the sunrise. "Greg," I greeted him, my voice a melody of warmth.
"Ally," he responded, the simplicity of his greeting belied by the rose extended towards me. I accepted the flower with practiced gratitude, its placement on the key stand a silent testament to the routine of our interactions. Red roses, a symbol of affection that had become a cliché through repetition.

"Ready?" I could feel his anticipation, a barely contained energy that bordered on the intrusive. "Sushi and wine, your two favourites." His words, intended to please, only highlighted the predictability that had come to define our interactions. I nodded, the gesture a silent agreement to the evening's plan, and followed him to his car, my thoughts adrift.

Greg's fascination with psychology, a field that captivated me with its endless depths, was the bridge that had drawn us together. Yet, despite this common interest, his conversations felt like traversing a flat landscape, devoid of the peaks and valleys that marked the terrain of the human psyche. My life, enriched by the complexity of my patients, found little resonance in the simplicity of his worldview. He was a blank canvas, content to remain untouched by the vibrant strokes of life's experiences. But I couldn't not admit to myself that it was that same simplicity that brought me comfort.

Dinner unfolded with the familiarity of a well-rehearsed play, the exchange of pleasantries masking the undercurrent of my disinterest. Greg's commentary on the art of sushi preparation served as a backdrop to my wandering thoughts, a mind adrift in a sea of reflections. I played my part, engaging in the dance of conversation, yet always on the periphery, watching for the moment when the veil of triviality would lift.

And then, amidst our routine exchange, came the question that pierced the veil, a rare glimpse into the depths I sought. "How's Roland?" Greg inquired, his words a bridge to the unexplored, an invitation to venture beyond the facade of our interactions. In that moment, the possibility of connection, of genuine exchange, shimmered on the horizon, a beacon guiding me back to the present. Even though he used the wrong name.

As the question hung in the air, I found refuge in the meticulous act of dabbing my lips with a napkin, my focus momentarily tethered to the delicate grip of my chopsticks. "Roman," I corrected gently, noting the subtle flinch that betrayed Greg's discomfort with his mistake — a misstep he chose not to acknowledge further, perhaps to spare us both the weight of correction.

"He's alright," I offered, the words barely preceding another retreat to the comforting clarity of my wine. "Moving in with me in a couple of weeks," I added, a statement previously shared but now echoing with the gravity of its impending reality.