Question
...
Monday 17th December
Questions. Endless, inquisitive questions. Investigative, thoroughly curious and relentlessly aimed at her, all evening long.
It started at work, when a lawyer showed just the slightest bit too much interest in her and asked why she chose to become a psychologist. Since then, he can't ask enough. It's as though he suddenly realised he doesn't know everything he thinks he ought to know, and more.
Her favourite colour, book and film. Her childhood pets. Broken bones, oldest friend, most terrifying memory. Best holiday, deepest fear, favourite ice-cream flavour. Has she ever held a stick-insect, or hit someone in a fit of rage? Cats or dogs? Weirdest date, best concert, hidden talents. The list goes on and on, and he's listened attentively and absorbedly to every single answer, drinking in the details, utterly fascinated. It's been hours now, and he's still going, still desperate to know absolutely everything about her.
It lasts through dinner, the handful of evening chores they just can't avoid and keeps on as they settle in the living room, he sprawled the length of the sofa and she draped sideways across the armchair, legs swinging idly as she sips her wine and watches him take in all the information he's suddenly so greedily coveting.
"Don't you have any questions?" he eventually asks, pausing to watch her curiously. Grace shakes her head slowly.
"No, I know everything I need to know about you, Boyd."
"Really?"
"Really," she confirms lazily and she watches the way he mulls that over, can see his mind ticking from across the room.
"No questions," he murmurs, still stuck on that thought.
"Well," she muses, thinking aloud. "I do have one question –"
"Yes?" he seizes on her words, instantly wanting to know. She shakes her head gently, apologetically.
"But I'm not going to ask it," she concludes.
He sits up, curiosity provoked. "Why not?"
She slowly shakes her head again, gazing wistfully at him. "Because I don't want to know the answer."
He looks incredibly confused and she really can't blame him, but she's not willing to explain herself, not even to him.
"Why on earth not?"
"Because I don't!" she sighs, knowing he won't let this rest and wishing that she had kept her mouth shut. He's quiet for a long time, pondering the concept.
He knows her. He knows her very well, and he also knows that she knows almost everything there is to know about the way his mind works. She reads him like a book, most of the time. Which begs the question, what on earth could she want to find out that she couldn't just deduce from knowing him as well as she does? What does she think she couldn't possibly predict his answer to?
"Is it really complicated?" he asks, wary of a long, convoluted psychological analysis or assessment. She picks up on his train of thought immediately and smiles fondly.
"No. It's very simple, actually. A yes or no answer." She stretches and slides deeper into the cushions of the chair, sleepy and very comfortable, but still very much awake and engaged in the conversation.
"Why don't you just ask me then? If it's so simple?" He can't for the life of him fathom why she would be wary of asking him anything, not when they already share everything. And she is wary – he can sense the faint trace of fear in her that the conversation is eliciting.
"I told you," she sighs, "I don't want to know the answer."
He can't make it out, and he falls silent again for a long, long time, lying back against the arm of the sofa, deep in contemplation and trying – for the life of him – to figure out whatever it is that could cause her such caution, apprehension and avoidance. Eventually though, an idea occurs to him and, slightly incredulous, but simultaneously thoroughly enchanted by the concept, he props himself up on an elbow, staring thoughtfully at her.
"Grace?"
"Hmmm…" her voice is soft, hazy. She's started to drift slightly in the quiet peace of late evening.
"What if you already knew the answer was yes? Would you ask me then?"