Chapter Fifteen

"Psychology which explains everything

explains nothing, and we are still in doubt."

- Marianne Moore

Sayid had begun to feel a slight throbbing in his temples, yet he ignored it for now and immersed himself in his work. He was tinkering with various electronic parts at his workbench on the beach. Libby approached him, taking a seat beside him. It was the same spot Shannon had inhabited when she had worked to translate the maps, and Sayid did not appreciate the imposition. But he was, of course, polite.

"May I help you?" he asked.

Libby ran a hand through her blonde curls and looked at him. "What do you think of Nasser?" she asked.

Sayid drew a red wire out of the remains of the radio he had salvaged from the propeller jet and smoothed it, examining the frayed ends. He had no answer because he tried not to think of Nasser at all. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm a little worried about him," she said. "He is very isolated here."

Sayid glanced at her. It was the psychologist speaking. She had tried to counsel him once, after Shannon's death, but he had courteously made it clear that he did not place much faith in such practices, and Libby had soon enough accepted that he would not be discussing his emotions with her. Their relationship had been less strained since then, but they weren't precisely friends. He wondered why she was seeking his opinion.

"How can that be?" Sayid asked. "You do not say you worry about Nadia or Marcus, and they are newcomers as well."

"They have both already begun to make friends among the other survivors. Nasser is very polite and helpful. He is courteous, but not friendly."

"Perhaps he is just reserved. Like me."

Libby laughed. "You are not that reserved, Sayid. You're just not very talkative. It isn't quite the same thing. You've made friends here, at least."

"Nasser has his wife. What better friend can a man have?"

Libby glanced at the scattered parts on the workbench as though she wondered how he kept the jumble ordered in his mind. "It isn't the same thing as connecting to the community."

Sayid did not respond to this; instead, he busied himself.

"Have you noticed the way his moods seem to change?" Libby asked.

Sayid had occasionally wondered how Nasser treated Nadia when they were alone. Nadia's husband appeared to love her genuinely, but from what little Sayid had witnessed of their interactions, Nasser was alternately tender and aloof, conciliatory and demanding. Nadia was a woman of fierce and independent spirit, and this feature of her personality appeared simultaneously to endear her to her husband and to offend him.

Sayid had not exactly thought of these things as shifting moods, but perhaps Libby was right. He did not, however, believe it much mattered if she was. "You need another hobby," he said. "Not every variation in personality requires a diagnosis. Not every grief can be healed by talking."

"Sayid, I know you don't respect my profession--"

"That is not true, Libby. Psychology has its uses. But it has its limitations as well."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked.

"I think you are bored," he replied. "Nasser is who he is; just as I am who I am. You cannot change that." Sayid picked up a screwdriver, looking a bit irritated. "Why are you even asking me about him? If you really want to know—ask him."

"He's not very approachable," answered Libby.

Sayid laughed. "And I am?"

She smiled. "More so." She watched him work for a moment and then said, "I'm sorry I took up your time."

"No, Libby, I am sorry if I seemed rude. You mean well, no doubt."

She accepted his apology with a smile and a nod, and then she rose and made her way down the beach. Sayid felt his headache deepen.