The poet sat quietly on the black leather couch, his caramel-coloured eyes distant and wistful, steeped in some sort of private despair. Across from him, sitting gracefully in a lavender plush chair, sat his new therapist; a slender, mousy woman with straight brown hair tied back in a sensible bun, pushing her glasses higher on her delicate nose and gnawing absently on the end of a ballpoint pen. Shifting in her chair, she thought a moment before speaking, as though treading carefully. "I can appreciate how hesitant you are, Mr.--"
"Please," he replied without looking at her, his voice caressing her ear like velvet. "Call me Poet. I prefer that."
Her face flushed with heat at the sound of his voice. "Very well... Poet. I understand your hesitation. I know this is cliché, but many people, mostly men, can often have a difficult time dealing with grief and loss. We don't need to talk about it if you'd rather not, but I have to wonder why you keep coming here if you don't want to open up." Her ice blue eyes pore over every inch of the man, memorizing every detail: his striking, chiseled features, underlined by the odd smirk of quiet amusement; his black silk shirt, top two buttons left lazily undone; his strong, well-groomed hands, fingers drumming to the song on the radio; the way his thick forearms would flex when he switched positions; even the way his chest would rise and fall with each breath. Get a grip, Nicole, she thought, suddenly aware of every wrinkle in the fabric of her clothes, every misplaced hair, chipped nail and uncovered blemish on her skin. Try to contain yourself -- he's a patient, for God's sake. You've seen male patients before.
The poet's expression was stoic, neutral. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it, Doctor. Truthfully, I know I need to, but I've no clue where to begin. There's so much, and I suppose I'm afraid of missing a crucial detail."
God, that voice. "Well, we've got the whole hour, so maybe start somewhere near the beginning, and I'll ask questions if something's unclear. Does that sound fair?" Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the tiny cues hidden in his reaction and noting the details in her head. Arms folded (guarded, nervous?), He doesn't make eye contact, but doesn't lack confidence or grace. Eloquent, educated (but not arrogant). Very meticulous about appearance, but seems relaxed.
"As a matter of fact," the poet remarked, "I don't think that's fair at all. We need to define our terms -- you see, if I am to tell you of my past, I think it only suitable that I learn about yours. I may ask you a question or two about yourself as we sit here, if that's acceptable. Does that please you?" The last sentence was punctuated by a moment of sudden, intense eye contact.
She sat hypnotized by that look for three agonizing seconds, her entire body trembling before she remembered he'd asked her something. "Yes! Yes, that would be fine -- though I assure you, my life is the opposite of excitement. I live alone, I spend most of my time reading, working, or playing with Dagwood."
His head cocked to one side, suddenly interested. "Dagwood… a dog?"
"Yes,” she replied. He's an old Great Dane. Are you a dog person, Poet?"
“I have a lot of respect for dogs,” he remarked. “Such unconditional love, and unwavering loyalty. We could learn a lot from them, don’t you think?” He turned slightly more toward her, his eyes gentle and kind. “Have you ever experienced a love like that, Doctor? A torrent of passion so intense and absolute that you would do anything for another person?”
Awestruck by his words, she lost her bearing again and found herself staring at him. Darting her eyes quickly down to her dark blue heels, she swept a wayward hair out of her eyes and muttered, “…no.”
“A shame.” His eyes were distant again, his tone stoic and hollow. “If ever you are fortunate enough to experience a love like that, Doctor, I urge you to cherish it. The truest love is always wonderful, but tragically fleeting.” Taking a deep breath, he sunk back into the couch, lost in pensive silence.
Nicole raised an eyebrow, scribbling on her notepad. A breakup? Now we’re getting somewhere. “Were you together long?”
“Over a year,” he replied. “Not a long time in the grand scheme, I suppose, but it was the most intense relationship –in fact, the only real relationship I’d ever had.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” she said. “You’re obviously educated, eloquent and well-mannered.” Never mind those topaz eyes, or the fact that the sound of your voice makes me weak in the knees, she thought, but didn’t say. “You seem pretty put together, which is more than I can say for a lot of people I talk to.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that.” His sad eyes met hers again, sending another wave of electric heat through her again. “I wasn’t always, though. The person sitting on your couch is not the same man I was before… her.”
“Maybe that’s a good place to start, then. Would it be easier to talk about yourself first?” Like maybe your home address, how you take your coffee, or how tight the scarves are on my wrists when you tie me to the be—
“Very well,” the poet muttered, staring idly out the windows at the snow-buried November landscape, “but I assure you, it’s not pleasant, and most of it isn’t irrelevant now anyway. She’s gone.”
“Who is she?”
A solemn half-second’s silence hung in the air before he replied, with a deep, cleansing breath. “She was everything. She saved me; helped me escape from my own misery, and to become the man on your couch. I wouldn’t be who I am if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Tell me about that.” Here we go, she thought. Shifting in her chair again, her delicate feet slipped out of her shoes and she tucked her legs in, half-sitting in her chair. “Whenever you’re ready to begin.
----
- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.
