"I want you to talk about women," drones the hoarse voice of a therapist as a patient lies on her couch, uninterestedly making a plane from a page torn from his leather-bound book. "Mr Chambers?" She tries once. No response. "Cato?"
Cato, a moment ago lost in his thoughts, looks to his therapist, and scrunches up a half-made and what would have been his fourth paper airplane in this session. "I'm sorry?"
"Women. You get to talk about women," Cato's therapist responds as her painted lips curl and hollow cheeks move ever so slightly into a smile of bemusement.
"What about them?" Cato asks, shifting from his position on the chaise. "What do you want me to say about women, Coin?" He secures the leather notebook on the tea table next to him, beginning another half-assed airplane to be thrown across the room, only to disappointingly land a mere metre or so away from the shrink's couch.
"What do you think of women, Cato? Do they interest you?"
"Coin, the last time I checked, I batted the other way," Cato punctuates amusingly. "Women parts don't sit well with me." He cringes, "You were one of the first adults I told, and that was a pretty big deal to me back then." He pauses, looks up at her and adds, "Thanks for remembering. Feeling really loved and valued here, Alma. Great therapist you are." He sniggers. "Then again, your bob wasn't greying back then."
His therapist laughs heartily but with her husky voice, it sounds something like a dog out of breath to Cato. "Okay, Cato. What are your thoughts on men?"
"Jesus Christ, I know what you mean, but when you say 'men'—just with you—I imagine sexually unsatisfied closet cases with trimmed beards and suits bought off the rack, wives and kids, and mortgages and work to worry about during the day… hoping not to get caught when they sneak into gay bars at night." Cato readjusts himself on the chaise, digging his shoulders into the leather.
"Well, you are unfortunately at that awkward stage of your life," she pauses, "where you sound like a paedophile if I say 'boys'." She pauses with a suppressed snort, "you seemed to be offended by the lack of class of the word 'guys' the last time I used it. What do you want me to call male specimens whose ages lie within your suitable range of attraction?" She asks, purposefully being wordy as if to make a point.
Cato chuckles, "How about Kouroi? As in those Greek youths that they modelled the sculptures after?" He pauses briefly, and laughs at the unmoved expression that Coin feigns. "Lol nah. Point taken. With 'men' it will have to stay."
"'Lol nah?' Who's being classy now, Cato?" She snorts and shakes her head in amusement. "Okay, what are your thoughts on men your age?" Before Cato is able to respond, she self-corrects, "Scratch that. You'll probably bag me out because most men at your tender age of twenty two will most likely be broke and seeking work, or broke and just intoxicated from a party, or broke and still having to live in their parents' house. You happen to be none of those… ESPECIALLY not broke." She pauses and gives him a knowing look as he shrugs. "What are your thoughts on men like THE Mr Cato Huldrich-Chambers?" She sniggers, then continues, "You know, filthy rich, ultra-successful prodigies who make it so big they can retire five years after college because of daddy and mommy's connections… someone who would rock up at Sotheby's Post-war and Contemporary Art Evening Sale at November, get one of the aisle seats and bid on a Twombly or a Warhol he doesn't even like." Cato laughs as she continues, "He would bid on the paintings only because he hates fellow billionaire Peter Brant, and he knows Peter Brant would pay anything for those paintings." She bursts into a wild chuckle. "Cato, darling, that was brilliant I have to say. Peter Brant having to wage a bidding war with a twenty-one year old wearing ripped skinny jeans for a Warhol, and paying almost forty million more than the reserve price for it." She claps her hand in disbelief as she tries to remember the details. "But dear oh dear. That stunt you pulled had your father pissed. That's what landed you on my shrink's couch."
"Yeah ha-ha-ha, real funny. I just have to say, Coin, I do love your rambling." Cato pauses and straightens his face, "but all jokes aside, I don't mind this though. You're a pretty cool cat. Even before you became my therapist, you've been cool."
"I'm flattered," she responds, rolling her eyes. For a brief moment, she remembers having her daughter, Clove, in tow before her first day of primary school at the Capitol Academy sixteen or so years ago. This little blond boy ran up to them, crying, having lost his mother amidst the sea of sentimental parents bidding their goodbyes and good lucks to their children, unable to believe they are 'growing so fast'. Clove eagerly reassured the blond not much older than her, and after finding his missing mom, began a friendship between the two Coin had seen grow as they had grown through the years.
She smiles slightly at the thought as Cato continues, "And Brant's son is almost exactly like me," and after a slight pause, qualifies, "according to your description of me that is. Because we both know no one can be exactly like me," he cockily but also good-naturedly declares. "He's hot… and not just hot to the general population… he's the Cato-would-bang kind of hot—"
Coin interrupts sarcastically: "I don't know what you think Cato, but you with another one of you sounds like a giant explosion of testosterone and ego... and no innuendo intended."
Cato roars into laughter, "I wasn't done!" He exclaims, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender, "He has one major flaw that prevents me from even considering for one second getting with him."
"And what is that?"
"His name's also Peter Brant. He's. Peter. Brant. The Second," Cato answers.
Coin chuckles and shakes her head while she looks down at the desk in front of her. "I don't really know if my therapy's changed you one bit, darling. People on the street and your father will still probably think you spoilt and bratty and narcissistic as ever."
"I love myself much too much to allow myself to change… if that even makes sense." Cato responds.
She chuckles. "It does. And really, that 'problem' of yours isn't really much of a problem… just tone down the arrogance around randoms and your father." Cato snorts. "What we need to work on is the tricks you pull when you're bored, and you seem to do some pretty stupid things when you're bored."
"Ahhh—debatable." Cato replies, suppressing a snigger.
"What isn't up for dispute is your stupidity when bored." She retorts immediately, Cato rolls his eyes and laughs, "But no, in all seriousness. What do you think of men?"
"What does this have to do with my 'tricks' though?" Cato asks. He glides the palms of his hands across the leather of the chaise, "But to answer your question," he pauses, "I enjoy men," shrugging as he continues.
Coin chooses to ignore his question and begins tapping her manicured nails against the desk's mahogany, "enjoyment isn't intimacy and it sure as hell ain't love."
"Well… intimacy and love aren't necessarily enjoyment… I'm much too young to be considering shit like that." Cato shrugs and looks around his therapist's office. His eyes stop to land on Coin's nails painted a dark purple—or was it navy? Being colour-blind, he had always struggled to distinguish his blues from his purples.
Coin stops her rhythmic tapping of nails against the desk. "How would you know? Cato, you came out to your peers at eighteen, to the disappointment of many girls and delight of guys who pine for you." She pauses, shifting in her seat behind the desk, "You came out to me at eighteen as well, three years even before I became your therapist. I know you've slept around for a bit since then… you make no secret of the marks you make on the bed post of how many you've had and how often," Cato nods offhandedly and shrugs, "but that seems to have been and to be the extent of your love life… all the time until today… you've never had a boyfriend… or girlfriend."
Cato opens his mouth to say something, but Coin continues, "You complain about being lonely now that most your friends are landing jobs here, there and everywhere. Yet you don't seem to express any intention of following any of them. Have you been catching up with any at all besides Clove?" He shrugs and shakes his head. She sighs, "Cato, has it ever occurred to you that—that you may have problems with trust?" Coin having put on her more professional persona, and Cato, noticing the change in formality, swept the neglected paper airplane sitting next to him off the leather chaise and straightened himself as he sat.
"Trust? I trust myself. My parents. Even if my dad's an ass most times. I trust Clove. I trust you—" Cato responds, shifting himself, refusing to meet Coin's gaze.
"What about other people?" Coin asks. Cato shrugs and says nothing. "Do you think other people can trust you, Cato?"
Cato pauses briefly, "You mean society at large?"
"I really mean your objects of enjoyment; your men like you, Cato. Can they trust you?" Coin's brown eyes watch him carefully behind her thick rimmed specs.
Cato thinks about it, and following an audible sigh, "I guess they could. Yes. They can trust me."
"Good." She nods, "Under what circumstances would you allow that to happen?" She laces her fingers together as she plants her elbows on the desk, and rests her chin between her knuckles.
Cato thinks about it, opens his mouth to respond, then stops himself and closes it, repeating the process a few times. He chuckles and shakes his head, "As long as their interests don't go against mine," brief pause, "and I get what I want… they—they can trust me."
Coin leans back on her chair, removes her spectacles and carefully places them on her desk with her right hand, while rubbing her temple with the left. "And society? What if its interests run counter to your own?" Cato slumps back on the chaise, shrugging and smiling but saying nothing. "I have a proposal for you, Mr Chambers."
Cato studies his therapist for a few brief moments before nodding to her, gesturing her to continue. He fixes his eyes on his leather notebook once more, debating whether or not to start another airplane. He hears Coin uncap a pen and make a few scribbles on paper.
"The main reason you're seeing me is because your boredom compels you to pull some really expensive stunts. We've established that, and we're yet to resolve it." She pauses, "Actually that's not entirely true. You've stopped it with costing people money for your stunts. It's just your father's fat wallet paying for your tricks now." She jibes, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Cato chuckles and nods, his eyes still fixed on the notebook, yet to look at his therapist. "And it's been pointed out your arrogance is an issue to some?" Nod. "And you complain about being lonely?" Another nod. "I have a proposal—and take it as a challenge if you so wish." She pauses, "Cato, try to get a boyfriend." He lets out a chuckle, real funny, Coin.
"Huh?" He responds, but a silence dawns on the room soon after.
His eyes are squinted as they remove their gaze from the notebook and land on her, observing her features closely, seeing if there was a punchline coming, somewhere. He looks away as he responds, "Boyfriends aren't my style, Coin. Your 'love and intimacy' crap are, well… bullshit to me." He's never felt the need for one. The prospect of reaching out and being willing to expose all vulnerabilities to somebody else really does not sit well with him. Maybe he does have problems with trust.
"Cato, hear me out," Coin responds, her eyes observing Cato, who sniggers and shakes his head, ready to dismiss her proposal. "You're bored and like a challenge. This is something you've never done. Take that whole having to reach out and actually investing trust in someone as a challenge. You complain about being lonely too. He'll keep you company." Coin briefly pauses, looking at Cato who seems visibly uncomfortable and runs his fingers across his comb-over—an impulse Coin has noted Cato tends to exhibit when uneasy. "And having a boyfriend might help you get less cocky." She pauses, studying his features—his jaw clenching and unclenching as he looks very deeply in thought—"Call it an exercise in maturity. I'm trying to kill three birds with one stone here." Pause. "You don't really seem convinced, Cato—"
"I'll think about it," Cato responds before she is able to continue, running a knuckle across his smooth, thoroughly shaven jaw. He picks up his notebook and promptly gets up from the chaise—a boyfriend? "I'll see you when I see you. Next fortnight?" Coin nods, studying him closely from behind her mahogany desk. "Say hi to Clove for me—I'll see her soon."