Page 2 of The Last Good Man

I’ll walk home tonight, and this weekend will be all about me. I’ll be sleeping, ordering some food, and watching movies.

Maybe I’ll rent a car and drive to Connecticut.

Aretha’s lips move.

“The idea was to have cigarettes in your purse so you don’t obsessed over them,” she says, pulling me out of my head.

I clutch my studded bag.

“I’m not obsessed with them. I slide my hand into my bag out of habit. I haven’t thought about smoking in a, uh… I don’t know. A few months?”

My hand drifts away and moves over my pencil skirt.

I square my shoulders, tip my gaze to the sweetsin front ofme, pick up a butterscotch candy from the bowl, and fuss with the cellophane wrapper before popping the candy into my mouth.

Leaning back, I suck on it and mull over a good answer, still busy with the wrapper.

I notice irritation in her eyes.

The noise is admittedly annoying, so I drop the wrinkled cellophane on the table and press my back into the couch.

Seeking a more comfortable position, I press my knees together and point them to the side.

She gives me a discreet once over, her eyes paired with curiosity and puzzlement.

I get that from men and women alike.

“What makes you want to smoke now?” she asks.

I hold her eyes for a few long seconds, my lips curved into a smile.

“That’s the reason I am here. You’re supposed to tell me what the problem is with me.”

My jab at her professional expertise doesn’t go unnoticed, her eyebrows wiggling up in disbelief.

“You and I have gone over every scenario. And you’ve dismissed all of them. So it’s your turn now. What is the problem in your opinion?”

Absently biting my lip, I glance around the room, taking inventory of the wooden floors, comfortable armchairs, lanky floor lamps, and rain misting the windows.

“You know why I love coming here?” I ask, anticipating more frustration from her.

Perfect silence follows my words, making mebring my gaze backto her.

“How long has it been? Four, five years?” I murmur.

She flashes a relaxed smile.

“Four and a half.”

“Do you remember all our sessions?”

“Most of them.”

“Why are you still taking notes then? You know my life like the back of your hand.”

She shrugs.

“Habit?”

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