"So I turned to chemistry, with a renewed passion for exactitude."
"So that's what you studied in college...or, as you say, 'at university,'" Alé said with a smile, finding this backstory strangely endearing, though immediately classifying him as having a high potential to be classified as having obsessive-compulsive disorder, not to the point of psychosis...but still not quite high-functioning.
"Yes."
It occurred to her that becoming engaged in chemistry might have been where he got his first head full of chemicals, and that made her a little sad.
"That was most informative."
"But no doubt you've associated me with the wrong DSM-IV Axis II disorder, Miss Melendez."
She rolled her eyes. "You can read minds, can't you."
"I imagine that, based on the story, I just told, you think I must be obsessive compulsive, but I swear to you I experience little to no emotion whatsoever, and my capacity for objects-relations is minimal. I'm married to my work and divorced from feelings. Emotions, to me, are the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. I am a legitimate sociopath. Albeit high-functioning."
Alé just laughed. "No doubt that's rehearsed."
"...To some extent, yes. But, as you yourself said, that does not mean it's any less legitimate."
"To be specific, I didn't say that what I rehearsed was legitimate, per se, but I'll let that pass, you're trying to prove a point."
"But you still laughed."
"Yeah, 'cause when one makes a personal diagnosis, especially regarding Axis II disorders, one is less evaluating the situation objectively than letting the subconscious seize upon what it wants to be."
This seemed to perturb him, and she continued.
"It's clear, especially by the way you call yourself a sociopath, that in truth that's what you want to think of yourself as. More likely, you're at the exact opposite. Which means my diagnosis is more likely to be intact."
"What was your diagnosis?" He sounded truly interested.
"I never tell a person the diagnosis I give them. In any case, it doesn't really matter, such a label...it is so changeable. Human personality is fluid. More than many therapists want to admit. It makes their job easier if they forget you're evolving every moment of your life unless you choose to be still."
A thought came to her, and she delighted in remembering something she'd probably seen on PBS's NOVA.
"As a chemist, you know that every atom in the universe is constantly vibrating, never in a state of stagnation – so why should we, creatures that are composed of billions of these atoms, consider any aspect of ourselves to be unchanging and unchangeable?"
She took a sip from her drink again, and, without looking at him, held the remainder out as an offering. He accepted it and drank the remaining quarter of a cup's worth of cool, milky sweetness, save a tiny last drop that, when he returned the glass bottle to her, she coaxed out with the tip of her tongue.
As a symbolic gesture, it seemed to have solidified their good terms.
"Chico, we need more coffee," she said, and he grumbled an agreement. "Remind me to stop when we're not in the middle of this beautiful dark nowhere."
This was more of a mental note, and they spent a few moments in contemplative quiet, the Brit returning to his phone as it flashed with light. After some moments, he quietly observed, "I think you are a rather good social worker, Miss Melendez."
She smiled, but could tell that there was something more in the subtext of what he was saying. "...Um, thank you? But what you mean?"
"Some therapists would benefit to hear you right now."
"Like, yours?"
He was silent for a moment, as if not wanting to admit he'd had one.
"You no longer engage his services though, I guess."
"Never guess, Miss Melendez, only use logic."
"Ok, so I intuit that you no longer have a therapist. Given the information."
"What information is that?" It sounded not as though he was actually interested in justifying the conclusion as much as he was interested in the reasoning behind her conviction. He was distracting her with a superficial tangent. She indulged him, however.
"Um..." She looked at him. "Your body language when I asked 'Like, yours.' Your phraseology: 'some therapists would benefit to hear you right now.' Makes me think you've had some interesting experiences with therapists. The fact that you use clinical terms offhand..."
She shrugged. "I dunno, man. I guess mostly the dissatisfaction you seem to have with them combined with the familiarity you have with the profession. It's clear you knew them personally. If we were talking about eye doctors...it'd be the same thing."
A pause ensued, and she sighed. "Was it your parents who sent you or your teachers at school or what?"
He seemed to have regained composure to some degree in hearing her explanation, and he appeared indifferent to the subject of conversation, clearly disassociating his recognition of the fact that it was himself that was being talked about. Instead, he seemed to talk about it as though it were another person, perhaps a case study, perhaps a client.
"While it is really no concern of yours, I think you would respect and appreciate a brief summary of the details, Miss Melendez. In short, there was no small concern or effort on the part of the parents in the situation," he said neutrally, "but these attentions were primarily focused on the sister of the individual, said sister's issues being far more pressing as a relapsing alcoholic. The only focused beating on the individual in question came from one particular veterans-hospital nurse who was a do-gooder, like yourself."
He paused, considering his words carefully. "She was...very fierce. Very compelling. And she gave away the card of a London psychologist. A psychologist who has received very infrequent visits, only in times of significant crisis...like yesterday."
Then his face changed, for as little as he had said, it was clear he had said more than he wished in retrospect, and he turned his head towards the window.