They stared at each other with that look that dared the other to speak first. The clock moved silently on the wall, almost like it didn't want to make a sound. The dark wood furniture seemed to melt into the wood paneled walls. The diplomas stood out in stark contrast with their gold borders and silver seals. The only color that came from the room was the red couch that he sat on, and even that was a muted burgundy. He knew what the other was doing, but he didn't want to be the first to break the silence. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of winning. He had a point to prove, and speaking would negate why he remained reticent.
He thought back to the events leading up to this meeting. Why had she left again? He couldn't remember. It was only a few days ago, but it seemed like forever. He relived that moment over and over again, saw her walking out the door and it slamming behind her. He remembered the painting falling off the wall from the force of her anger. Or was it frustration? He didn't know for sure. He just knew that the one thing that had kept his life together was gone.
The other man's glasses glinted with the small amount of sunlight that came through the heavy blinds. The light in the corner was on to add illumination to the dim office, but it being the middle of the day the lamp only caused the room to seem darker than it was. He looked around the office at the shelves of books and wondered if the man with the glasses had even read half of them. He then saw the man start writing on the pad that he had been holding in his lap. The pencil scratched across the surface leaving the carbon markings in its wake. He wondered what caused the man to start writing. Was it because he looked at the books? Or because he still wasn't talking? He then thought how the other might even be doodling, just to pass the time. He didn't care. Let him write or draw whatever he wanted. He wasn't speaking. He was here against his will and no one was going to change that fact.
She was like that. She could hold her own and not back down. He always loved that quality in her and never thought that it would be one of the reasons that she would leave. He remembered at least that much. What lead up to it? That's what he wanted to know. Of course, he knew if he had asked her that she would have retorted that he should have known by now. Mind reading games were not his forte. He always wanted it straight. Don't beat around the bushes. However, whenever he would say that to her she would become more infuriated and hurt that he didn't understand her. The ironic part was that he wanted to - desperately.
The chair creaked beneath the man with the glasses as he repositioned himself. Was he getting restless? Did he want it to end already? The man smiled slightly at the other's discomfort. He hoped his butt hurt from sitting for so long. He hoped he had to go the bathroom, that he was hungry, thirsty, anything that would cause him to end this.
He wasn't naturally a spiteful person. He was usually congenial and friendly. Few were the people that met him and didn't like him. But it had slowly gone downhill. Little things had started to bug him. He began cutting people off in traffic and silently cursing out others. He saw others as moronic and incapable of a logical thought. But she could never do wrong. It wasn't that she never made mistakes, but they were always downplayed in his eyes. He quickly forgave her for any fault or error in judgment. And maybe that was where he went wrong. Maybe it was the fact that he never helped her learn to deal with her own issues that caused their separation. He was doing it again. He was taking the blame onto himself instead of allowing her to be at fault. But he had been doing it for so long that it was ingrained in him.
He looked at the clock and the man in glasses wrote. Maybe he could get the man to write things that didn't mean anything. He reached up, scratched the inside of his ear and then looked at his finger. The man in glasses watched him put the finger to his nose and sniff before wiping it off on his leg. The writing resumed. The man laughed inside at how stupid the man in the glasses was. Why did they think that everything meant something?
That's what she had done. Every little twitch that he had. Everything he said or did she felt had some meaning behind it and she questioned it. Why couldn't she realize that sometimes he did something for no reason at all? It had bugged him so much that he began watching everything he did. No longer could he just answer what was on the top of his head for fear of having to explain himself. And that was something else that frustrated her.
He looked at the man in the glasses. Hours had passed and besides the scratching of the pencil or the creaking of the seats, no sound had been made. Why was he here? Why couldn't he just go home and live his life? What was left of it, at least, now that she was gone.
The door behind him opened and two men in white coats came in.
"Well, Mr. Thompson, perhaps tomorrow we can continue?" said the man in the glasses.
He didn't respond. He didn't even move. All he could think about was her. The men in white came over and helped him up. He stood there staring at the floor. The dark carpet seemed to fit the room perfectly. "I miss her," he finally said.
"We all do," replied the man in the glasses. "But we can't get her back. What we need to do is help everyone else that misses her find a way to move on. And only you can do that." He reached out his hand and put in on the man's shoulder. "Do you want to help us?"
His mind went to the hand on his shoulder and the hands of the men in white on his arms. He wondered how easily they could break him if they wanted. He wondered if they cut their nails. He half smiled at his random thought.
The man in glasses seemed to notice this and said, "Tomorrow, then. Have a good night, Mr. Thompson."
The men in white walked him out of the room and down the hall.
He thought back to the events leading up to this meeting. Why had she left again? He couldn't remember. It was only a few days ago, but it seemed like forever. He relived that moment over and over again, saw her walking out the door and it slamming behind her. He remembered the painting falling off the wall from the force of her anger. Or was it frustration? He didn't know for sure. He just knew that the one thing that had kept his life together was gone.
The other man's glasses glinted with the small amount of sunlight that came through the heavy blinds. The light in the corner was on to add illumination to the dim office, but it being the middle of the day the lamp only caused the room to seem darker than it was. He looked around the office at the shelves of books and wondered if the man with the glasses had even read half of them. He then saw the man start writing on the pad that he had been holding in his lap. The pencil scratched across the surface leaving the carbon markings in its wake. He wondered what caused the man to start writing. Was it because he looked at the books? Or because he still wasn't talking? He then thought how the other might even be doodling, just to pass the time. He didn't care. Let him write or draw whatever he wanted. He wasn't speaking. He was here against his will and no one was going to change that fact.
She was like that. She could hold her own and not back down. He always loved that quality in her and never thought that it would be one of the reasons that she would leave. He remembered at least that much. What lead up to it? That's what he wanted to know. Of course, he knew if he had asked her that she would have retorted that he should have known by now. Mind reading games were not his forte. He always wanted it straight. Don't beat around the bushes. However, whenever he would say that to her she would become more infuriated and hurt that he didn't understand her. The ironic part was that he wanted to - desperately.
The chair creaked beneath the man with the glasses as he repositioned himself. Was he getting restless? Did he want it to end already? The man smiled slightly at the other's discomfort. He hoped his butt hurt from sitting for so long. He hoped he had to go the bathroom, that he was hungry, thirsty, anything that would cause him to end this.
He wasn't naturally a spiteful person. He was usually congenial and friendly. Few were the people that met him and didn't like him. But it had slowly gone downhill. Little things had started to bug him. He began cutting people off in traffic and silently cursing out others. He saw others as moronic and incapable of a logical thought. But she could never do wrong. It wasn't that she never made mistakes, but they were always downplayed in his eyes. He quickly forgave her for any fault or error in judgment. And maybe that was where he went wrong. Maybe it was the fact that he never helped her learn to deal with her own issues that caused their separation. He was doing it again. He was taking the blame onto himself instead of allowing her to be at fault. But he had been doing it for so long that it was ingrained in him.
He looked at the clock and the man in glasses wrote. Maybe he could get the man to write things that didn't mean anything. He reached up, scratched the inside of his ear and then looked at his finger. The man in glasses watched him put the finger to his nose and sniff before wiping it off on his leg. The writing resumed. The man laughed inside at how stupid the man in the glasses was. Why did they think that everything meant something?
That's what she had done. Every little twitch that he had. Everything he said or did she felt had some meaning behind it and she questioned it. Why couldn't she realize that sometimes he did something for no reason at all? It had bugged him so much that he began watching everything he did. No longer could he just answer what was on the top of his head for fear of having to explain himself. And that was something else that frustrated her.
He looked at the man in the glasses. Hours had passed and besides the scratching of the pencil or the creaking of the seats, no sound had been made. Why was he here? Why couldn't he just go home and live his life? What was left of it, at least, now that she was gone.
The door behind him opened and two men in white coats came in.
"Well, Mr. Thompson, perhaps tomorrow we can continue?" said the man in the glasses.
He didn't respond. He didn't even move. All he could think about was her. The men in white came over and helped him up. He stood there staring at the floor. The dark carpet seemed to fit the room perfectly. "I miss her," he finally said.
"We all do," replied the man in the glasses. "But we can't get her back. What we need to do is help everyone else that misses her find a way to move on. And only you can do that." He reached out his hand and put in on the man's shoulder. "Do you want to help us?"
His mind went to the hand on his shoulder and the hands of the men in white on his arms. He wondered how easily they could break him if they wanted. He wondered if they cut their nails. He half smiled at his random thought.
The man in glasses seemed to notice this and said, "Tomorrow, then. Have a good night, Mr. Thompson."
The men in white walked him out of the room and down the hall.
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