Alright you two, thanks for the comments. Here's another one for you.
Chapter 2
Mask. Mask. Mask.
That one was too small. She'd been in the tabloids too often to expose that much of her face.
That one was too big. She couldn't have it hindering her jaunty words. One of her best qualities.
Eye slits weren't big enough.
Made of cloth.
Covered her ears.
Pink? Most certainly not.
"Ashley?" A creaking of forgotten brass hinges stretched forward with the probing voice.
She grunted her acknowledgment. Flippant at best. And her mask-laden computer screen met its other half with a soft click.
"What is it Kyla?"
"Before you leave for your appointment I need a signature on this contract." The black and white arrayed agreement was set before her on expertly stained oak.
"And which group is this one for?"
"The Indie-rock one."
"We need to branch out, we're a record label, not a rock-and-Indie record label."
"They're good Ash. You liked them when you saw them." The words were softened by her weary exhale.
Ashley's throat hummed as the pen in her hand asserted her consent across the solid line.
She sighed. Her eyes ached. Her shoulders pulsed. Her day was far from over.
"How are you doing? You seem tired. Are the sessions helping?"
"I suppose so." She didn't need to talk about this. She didn't want to.
"Okay, well…I'm free tonight, if you want to get some dinner and watch a movie. Maybe talk."
"Alright Kyla, I'll call you later." She wouldn't.
Her body slumped back in the cushioned chair, the other woman now absent from the room. It was 5pm and the clock reminded her of both her exhaustion and nearing appointment.
A jagged release of breath accompanied her descent down the elevator. Each passing floor wearily dinged out its presence.
Her office resided on the topmost floor. She liked it that way, easier to spring to the roof when necessary. And the view relaxed her.
Except for when that view contained pigeons. Pigeons located on her ledge. Their beady, bleary eyes watching her. Cocking their necks sharply to some unsung, but most likely sick, tune.
They were up to more than they led on. She could sense it.
The steel-plated doors of the elevator slid apart, shepherding her into the busied masses of the main floor. A raised hand silenced an impending flood of words from her frazzled, disheveled assistant. The girl's tired appearance rivaled her own.
"Shelly, I have an appointment and I won't be coming back to the office after. Do me a favor and drop any messages and paperwork off at the front desk of my apartment on your way home."
"Okay Miss Davies, I just—there's a lot." A few papers were wriggling free. Her overburdened arms bent to maintain control.
"What time did you go home last night?" The assistant struggled along next to her, legs scrambling to match the pace of their neighbors.
"Nine, Miss Davies."
"And the night before that?"
"Nine, Miss Davies."
"Yeah, that's all I want you to do. Collect what I need, leave as soon as possible, drop them off at my apartment, and go home."
"Uh, I'm sorry? Miss Davies, I don't understand…"
"I'm telling you to go home early. You're young, live a little. Go watch a movie, eat some Chinese, dance in the street. I don't care, I just don't want you slaving away here until nine anymore."
"Okay Miss Davies. Yes. Okay. Everything will be waiting for you when you get to your apartment." The young woman's feet stumbled against one another. Her hunched body hurried to her desk.
That girl worked too much. She'd have to make a point of giving her a raise. Or a promotion. Now that she thought about it, she did need a new office assistant on the top floor. The current one was fast approaching the age of a dinosaur. Nosier than a neighbor too.
The persistent evening sun coaxed a thick pair of shades over the tired woman's eyes. Her pace increased as she wound through the swirling currents of the street.
She was starving. She'd eaten lunch but her schedule had her body habitually screaming for sustenance. She didn't have much time but essentially anything would do. She scanned the street for options.
Pretzel stand.
Hot dog stand.
Kabob stand.
…
Hot dogs it was. Three of them if she were being specific. And she usually was.
They lasted five minutes. It was necessary to eat them fast. One, she was hungry. Two, she had a mob of pigeons trailing her. A literal mob. They probably had pitchforks hidden beneath their scabby little wings.
She'd lose all her limbs before she let them steal her dinner.
She turned hard into a familiar building, sending the birds a flamboyant middle finger as she backed away from them. The transparent barrier added arrogance to her insult.
A careless nod towards the desk clerk granted her access to the elevator that brought her to the appropriate floor. Floor six.
She sauntered through the opening. Sun-glasses dangled carelessly from her hand.
"He's all set for you Miss Davies. Go right on in." The voice drifted from the mouth of the headsetted man behind the counter. She was sure his workday had a few hours left. His haggard voice did little to disprove her assumption.
She pressed through the doorway, entering the familiar room. It was dark. He'd remembered to pull the shades.
"Hello Ashley." The voice was steady. Its tone conveyed a certain subtle playfulness, like it always did.
"Hey Doc." She was decidedly more relaxed despite the underlying whys and wherefores of their meetings.
She flopped down on the chair. A burst of air pushed its way through her smirk.
The man across from her offered a sort of release for the woman. He wasn't aware of all facets of her life, but held what she offered him delicately. Careful not to mishandle it. His lenient gaze was calming and offered her an outlet to any burden she chose to reveal. He knew there were holes in the information she afforded. But he never pushed. That wasn't how he did things.
"And how's your week been?" His crossed ankles emphasized the casual nature of his inquiry.
"Oh you know, same as always. Works been an absolute bear."
"Is that so… Anything out of the ordinary?"
"Not this week actually. Which is a nice surprise for me but unfortunately leaves you with a rather boring session."
"Well you won't hear me complaining that you're having an easy week."
"Whoa there. Ordinary, yes. Easy, never." The words were molded by a grin as they fell from her tongue.
"I didn't mean to be presumptuous," His lips mirrored hers, eyes fixed on clasped hands. "And what about your nights, how have they been?"
This question was less casual than the first, but stirred little discomfort within the confines of the room.
"Mm, not much of a change there."
"So you're still having trouble sleeping… You look exhausted, are you trying to take naps like we'd discussed last week?"
"Wow, you sure know how to give a girl a compliment Doc."
"I certainly haven't gone through thirty years of marriage without learning a thing or two."
"I can most definitely see that. And yes, I've been napping. It's more like unintentional napping though, they're sneaky little bastards."
"They can be, yes," his lips had yet to pull out of their upturned position, "And how many hours of sleep would you say you've gotten since our last session?"
"I'm not sure… twenty? Maybe twenty-five?"
"Okay, I really want you to try to fit a few more naps in this week. The more sleep deprived you let yourself become, the more that's going to feed into your sleep anxiety."
"Alright."
"Want a Coke?"
"Do you even have to ask?"
"I should know better by now."
"Thanks." She twisted the metal cap free from the glass rim. He always had the bottled Coke. Best kind.
"So, any problems with addictions?"
"Nope. Clean as a whistle."
"You don't strike me as one to be in danger of a relapse. I trust your resolve. I meant are you still having cravings?"
"I think I'll always have some but I'm not concerned."
"Good. So, next week I think it might be helpful to discuss your anxiety; to touch on your thoughts during an episode. Just so we can start to whittle away at this, okay?"
"Alright."
"Are you comfortable with that?"
"I suppose we'll find out."
A gentle knock and muffled click ornamented the end of her sentence. A splinter of halogen light fell into the room. It was quickly disfigured by a shadow.
"Yes Brad?" The Doctor voiced, expectant.
"Doctor Carlin, your daughter is here."
"Okay thank you. Just give us a minute."
The jagged light disappeared, along with Brad.
"Okay Ashley. Let's do the same time next week, but I'm going to schedule you for a full half-hour instead of fifteen minutes. I know you're busy, but if you want to make progress I think it's necessary. Fifteen minutes just isn't enough to get below the surface problems."
"Alright Doc, whatever you say. I'll see you." Her feet carried her to the door in two swift, self-assured steps. An amused shake of the head followed her retreating form.
Sureness firmly in place, an exaggeratedly confident hand swung the wooden door back on its joints.
The room was bright, illuminated to standard business protocol. Its center, previously empty, was now occupied by a woman. Blonde. Blue eyed. Fit. A lighter version of the Doctor.
She stood as she always did at the end of Ashley's weekly session. Dinner for two in hand, clad in work attire, hair bound in a practical tress. Spencer Carlin.
"You brought me dinner," head nodding to the brown takeout bag. "If I'd known you were going to wine and dine me I would've worn something a little more…alluring." Irritation radiated from the woman in front of her.
"Good evening Ashley." The absence of amusement in the greeting was evident. Unmistakably evident.
"Good evening to you Carlin." Her first name had never slipped from between Ashley's lips. Now was no exception.
The woman in front of her was too appealing. She held too much of the brunette's interest. Distance was necessary. Past experience alerted her to the dangers of an open heart. It was a weakness. A vulnerable target. Something she had no room for. Too many parts of her had been damaged. Too much of her body was already open to harm on a nightly basis. The last thing she needed was another exposed organ. Physically or figuratively.
Smarmy advances acted as her only defense, fortified thoroughly by previous press coverage. Her past doubled as a mask when her leather one couldn't be used.
This particular situation was a prime example of when her leather wouldn't do.
"You know, Carlin, the Doc told me you landed a job at the Times Quarterly as a photographer."
"I did, yes." Uncertainty flanked each syllable.
"I'm looking for a photographer for a nude self-calendar I'm doing, I figured you'd enjoy the view."
A slammed door echoed out in reply, the blonde's unvoiced yet strong rebuff.
The temptress had been successfully fooled and the brunette remained invulnerable, her strength—as usual—ensured by a mask.