COLE
I was tired of the chair.
I’d sat in it four times now. Same leather. Same angle. Same three feet of mahogany between me and the woman with the silver pen. I knew the scratch on her desk. I knew the hum of the fluorescents. I knew the click of the pen, one click, every session, right before she asked the opening question.
Click.
“How are you feeling this week?”
I looked at her. She was behind the desk. Pen aligned. Pad ready. Green eyes steady. Same as always. The magazine cover had been out for three days and she hadn’t mentioned it. The fight had been a week ago and she hadn’t mentioned that either. The truce was holding. The sessions were holding. Everything was holding, and I was tired of holding.
“I saw the magazine,” I said.
Her pen paused. A fraction of a second. Then it
