Never Happy

Here are the previous two parts to the series, if you want a refresher: TherapyExpression is Therapy.

 

All around them was the drunken chatter of singles hoping to get laid, and from the jukebox came the latest pop hit, but in their small part of the bar conversation had ceased. She stared into the amber depths of her bourbon as he took sips of his vodka tonic between furtive glances in her direction. Her conscious mind kept count of every time he looked at her, but her unconscious mind couldn’t be bothered with him, and it was in those unconscious waters that she was drowning.

 

“We can take this to my office, if you’d be more comfortable there.” He said trying to open conversation once again. Twenty minutes ago he’d been furious when he’d walked in and found her sitting at the bar in his usual spot, but the look she’d turned to him had silenced that anger in an instant. He’d seen several patients over the years with that haunted look, and it never bode well.

 

She finished her bourbon in one gulp and turned to face him. “Let’s do that,” she said now properly inebriated for conversing. She slipped from her stool and stumbled. He reached for her and grasped her by the elbow but she shook him off and steadied herself. He finished off his vodka tonic with a grimace and then followed her out into the busy night air.

 

Thirty minutes and one eerily quiet cab ride later he was unlocking the frosted glass door to the outer office. He held the door for her and glanced into the corner where he was spied by the round red circular light of the surveillance system. He latched the front door and then made his way past her to unlock the inner office and turned on the lamp beside the couch. There was an overhead fluorescent, but he liked to keep the office feeling homey, and less like a doctor’s office. He took his seat in the plush and overstuffed arm chair as she flopped into her usual spot on the couch and stared at the floor.

 

He considered going to his desk for a writing pad, but his gut told him to keep this one off the books. They sat in tense silence for a moment with him watching her watch the floor. He felt a crazy urge to start laughing. Nothing about this situation he found particularly funny, but all the same he felt the laughter burning in the back of his throat.

 

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” he said after composing himself.

 

Slowly she turned her gaze to meet his eyes, and he felt himself locked into place, as if her gaze commanded attention. “Talking won’t help,” she said as she began to unbutton her blouse.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked simultaneously panic-stricken and aroused.

 

She cast her blouse aside and stood up so she could unzip her skirt. “We both know this is what we want,” she said standing before him in her bra and panties. She yanked on her ponytail and her long, wavy brunette hair came tumbling free, brushing against the soft skin of her shoulders.

 

He sat dumbstruck as she crossed the distance between them and climbed into his lap and took his face in her palms. She kissed him once, closed mouth, and then he found himself responding despite the accusations his brain was screaming at him from his subconscious. After a while that voice disappeared entirely.

 

Afterwards they lie on the floor, arms and legs entangled. She was beginning to doze off with her head resting on his chest when he spoke.

 

“I’ll have to erase the tape,” he said anxiety filling his voice now that the blood had returned to his brain, and the acrimonious voice of reason had begun shouting in the center of his head once again. She responded with a low sound like a throaty hum and nestled closer to his warmth. They had nothing to cover them but the clothes they came in so body heat would have to do.

 

“Are you happy now?” He asked bitterly. “You’ve compromised me.”

 

She turned her head up to face him, and those eyes caught him like a bug in amber. She smiled softly. “I’ll never be happy,” she mumbled and then kissed him.

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