Resentment

Kleffs Dilemma

Santa Monica BLVD, CA, September 8th, 1997
2:30pm

"So you're telling me you're not living together?"

Dr Kleff had asked the question, but it hung in the air of the stuffy California office for awhile.

The question pressed itself up against the walls, and against the ceiling.

Neither Afia or Michael wanted to be the ones to confirm or deny the claim, and so they glanced across at each other, like two little puppies.

Lost and afraid.

The blood in Michaels hands had completely disappeared, due to how much he was wringing and twisting those long fingers together, weaving them in and out of his knuckles and his grip.

His two feet, like boats, sat inward, his toes facing each other awkwardly.

It was the most awkward Afia had seen him since they met.

White socks pooled at his thinning ankles, and continued up to his usual black slacks.
Michael held his ever moving hands over his lap, sometimes letting his thumbs spring up, and hide inside of the button holes in his Red CTE.

White V neck,
Red CTE.

Some things just never changed.

Today, Michael had decided in a rush to apply a heavy contour, and not much else to his face.

He'd lost weight, Afia noted, and his cheeks appeared more hollow.

They were rosy in colour, almost like two little red apples, and his eyebrows, thick with a black pencil, were no longer shooting up in surprise like they usually did.

His face was rather motionless, and his eyelids half closing, Afia noticed.

There was a yellow haze to his usually bright and sparkly brown eyes.

Her stomach heaved.
He was not okay.

Living apart, was making him sick.
Or depressed.
Or both.

Michael had chosen to keep his hat on, and he'd let it sit comfortably on top of his curls, which were once more scraped to the back of his head with a small silver clip.

"We.." Afia swallowed, because Michael had taken his half gaze from her, to stare at a spot on the carpet.

He would not look at her.
It would not bode well for anyone in the room if he did.

Kleff sat forward in his seat between the two, taking observational glances at each one of them.

The man straightened his glasses on his face, and tapped the clicker of the pen on his bottom lip, as if deep in thought.

"So, we're not talking to each other?" Kleff asked, sensing tension, as Michael remained unmoved by the conversation entirely.

He said nothing.

The only indication that he was still alive, were his anxious hands, rubbing in circles, round and around as he traced his rough knuckles.