The change to carpeting ate the sound of Maka's footsteps as she opened the door to the zen-ified office. One of those bamboo fountains tapped at a supposedly calming interval as she walked towards the sign-in desk.
A tiny woman—motherly bun and smile included—sat in the chair behind the glass. "Name?"
"Maka Albarn– here to see Dr. Yumi."
The woman's head bobbed a few times as she looked over at the computer. "You're early. Have a seat."
I'm always early. That was a little too prideful, and she heard it come out with the next sentence: "Did you receive all the new patient paperwork I emailed?"
"Yes, very thorough," the woman replied with a smile that Maka had seen one too many times.
Try-hard.
"Alright, I'll just…" She looked back towards the sofa and chairs arranged in a tight C. There was a man already sitting in one of the seats, a book in his lap. As she walked towards the other end of the set-up, he lifted his head, fiery red eyes blinking at her momentarily before he reached for his Deathbucks cup on the small table in front of him. Maka tried to smile. How successful that was had yet to be seen since the man only continued to stare as his head tilted, white hair flopping to the side in a bit of disarray.
As soon as she sat, his mouth opened, a baritone with a bit of a rasp breaking the space between them. "Look, I normally don't do this, but–"
She bristled, suddenly finding that glare much more appraising than she'd originally registered. "Bold of you to hit on someone in a therapist's waiting room."
His eyebrows popped up towards his hairline. "Ballsy of you to to assume anyone talkin' to you is hittin' on you." The white-haired man grimaced. "What I was gonna say is: 'but your fly is down.'" With one last flex of his jaw, he collapsed back against the chair to give his book his complete attention.
Maka buttoned her lips together as she flopped her back against the couch. Shaking fingers exonerated the man of any wrongdoing as she found he was correct– something she dismally tried to fix while trying to call the least amount of attention to herself. Great, Maka! Just instantly jump down a guy's throat because you think he could be looking at you. Death, you are such a piece of work. She forced her eyes shut with a sigh, the coolness of her palm fighting against the blazing urge to cry.
A few steadying breaths got her to the point where her gaze could flick back towards the man. He was still intent on the page, eyes searching along without a second thought spared for her. She looked towards the cup, focusing on the little words of the order sticker, reading them over and over in some attempt to bring nothingness to her mind.
Soul.
Spl milk.
No sugar.
"Ms. Albarn?" She jumped, her intent stare turning from the order she'd let echo in her head to the tiny window. The short woman barely registered above the glass– just a pair of eyes. "You can head back now. Second door on the right."
I just… My mama recently died. Except it doesn't even feel like that's the problem. It just reminds me of what the real problem is– all the memories of her and Papa. Or maybe it's just Papa and all his shit that caused the divorce. Somehow, even though I feel like he's it, I'm back here because of him, because I feel like I have to take care of him just like he took care of me after Mama left.
I was fourteen when she divorced me just as much as she did him, which is why her death doesn't even really feel like a loss. I never thought the hole of losing her could get bigger anyway and so far… so far it feels like it hasn't.
But every time I look at Papa? It's the same old ugly feeling rearing its head– cheater, lecher, skeeze. What's worse is that's bled way beyond just him. Even before Mama died I didn't trust men– I kept them at a distance and just focused on my life, my career. Now that she's dead? It's like any time I look at a man it's just Papa.
Like all I inherited in her death was her bitterness.
I even jumped down that guy's throat in the waiting room! He was honestly being nice– seemed nice until I had to open my mouth and accused him of doing what my dad would do. He would try to pick up a woman in a therapist's office, but that doesn't mean that everyone else is the same. Still, I see eyes on me– a handsome man looking at me and instead of feeling flattered, feeling good in any way, shape, or form, I'm disgusted.
Or maybe… maybe I'm just so scared.
Spirit's post-divorce ability to fill any gap with conversation cycled between being a curse and a blessing for Maka. Tonight, her guilt had forced her to view it as the latter as if showing mercy on this man somehow translated to the white-haired ghost haunting the back of her mind.
Soul.
Spl milk.
No sugar.
"And then Blair…"
Maka tried to resist the narrowing of her eyes. Must be his new girlfriend. That instantly turned the story to static in her ears, head simply nodding along, timed with the pauses in his breaths. She smiled– or at least she guessed she did. Crying always made her face feel numb as if it drained all the power of every muscle there. Somehow, there'd been far more tears than she'd expected in that office.
Most of it was frustration. Replaying the mistake– the snap judgment rudeness that seemed to leap off her tongue like vomit more often than she cared to admit. Not that the guy had been all that nice about it in return and his language–
"So you think you feel up to a movie this weekend?"
An internal sigh of relief rattled in her head. "Actually, I promised Blake I'd go to this party he's throwing."
Spirit raised his eyebrows.
The insinuation there came easily and Maka laughed. "Not a kegger or anything. Just, well, Blake invited a few people from work so I could meet them instead of just going in cold."
"That's nice of him." Spirit leaned on his elbow, dropping his fork against the plate. "I-I'm glad you took the job here, sweetheart. I hope you know how much I really appreciate–"
"It's not a big deal." Maka tried to squash what she knew was coming– another Spirit-grade, bleeding heart speech about how much his only daughter meant to him. Or maybe just the only daughter he knows about. She swallowed the sour thought. "I mean, the pay's better, not to mention if I'm really good I could save for my own house, you know? It's just a good– a fresh start."
A weak huff of a laugh left Spirit's lips as he reached for her, hand running over her hair softly. "My little girl, always thinking ahead."
Her fingers slid over his just to remove the soft touch and bring it back to the table. "I should get started on the dishes." She tried to smile at him again before standing and moving towards the sink. She turned on the water, trying to drown out her thoughts with the hiss. Why does it always feel so bittersweet?