He strides purposefully down the hall and into her office that morning feeling belligerent and primed for a fight, even while trying to project an air of indifference. His mental state is being called into question, and that really pisses him off. Not because he isn't slightly unstable; he is. But in his opinion, we're all slightly unstable. It's simply human nature. How else can we get through life's constant back and forth tilt if we don't do so on sea legs, so to speak? No, stability isn't really the issue here, is it? Not really. The heart of the matter is that he knows - beyond doubt - that these sessions are perfunctory. Just for show. A set-up, to be blunt. They're part of a carefully-arranged plan to minimise the fallout he tends to leave in his wake. They couldn't afford the risk this time, not for the sort of fallout he would create. So they were hedging their bets just in case they need to discredit him. Well, this is more than just his career at stake. This is his personal and professional reputation. No, even more than that. This is bigger than him. The truth is at stake. Truth is vital to him above all else. So if he bulls into her office that morning prepared to go 12 rounds, who can blame him?
He's prepared to go down swinging.
He's not prepared, however, for her.
She's nothing he expected. They shake hands (her hands are so impossibly delicate, yet her handshake is firm.). She's professional and courteous but somehow manages to convey warmth. He cuts to the chase and makes a few combative statements, asks a few questions to which he doesn't really expect answers. She doesn't rise to the bait but attempts to redirect, to get them back on task. He's having none of it. He prowls her office distractedly, makes a snide accusation. She meets his gaze directly, answers with sarcasm and a smile. He is instantly defused, responding with a quip. And she smiles at him then, a genuine smile that reaches her eyes. Blue eyes. For a split second he pauses, mouth slightly ajar and feeling vaguely confused and utterly unmanned.
He recovers quickly enough that he reckons she probably hadn't seen it. That little slip. That momentary flash of uncertainty. His mask is back in place now, and he sits and slouches (his self-preservation mechanism). And he begins talking.
In no time at all, the sessions become less formulaic, less structured. Almost friendly. She is warm and pleasant and trusting of him, open to the point of transparency. Could anyone really be this unguarded, this honest? It's unexpected. It's alluring. He feels drawn to her, and he can't explain it. And there she is, smiling that smile again. The one that reaches her eyes. The one that she smiles just for him. And he waits for her to speak, because he can't. Cannot even remember any words at all, much less the ones he had intended to say next. They must exist, words. But he's damned if he can recall a single one.
So he waits. He cannot speak.
Then she speaks. Smiles and speaks.
And suddenly, he can.
Because she does.