Page 35 of Look, Don't Touch

“I don’t make a habit of it.”

“But you make a habit of letting grown men punch you?”

His laugh is heady and delicious. “I make a habit of punching grown men.”

“Semantics. You get punched. Aren’t you worried about concussions? Brain damage? What’s the repeated concussion thing? CTE. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy?”

“I get punched. Mostly body shots. I’ve had a couple of cracked ribs,” he admits.

“Cracked ribs?” My voice is too shrill to be skillful.

“And one concussion.”

“Oh mercy.” I slip back into my old sayings, and a hint of my old twang bleeds through. Luckily, it’s only a whisper.

“I’m in the habit of giving concussions, not receiving them.”

“And people voluntarily do this in the city?”

“It’s mild compared to what some people do in the city.”

The words Oh, I know almost slip out. I don’t mention that I’ve had a cracked rib from one of those wild things people do. Thank goodness. About keeping my mouth shut, not about the cracked rib. I never saw that patron again. He ended up getting banned from Crave.

“Okay, Rocky, when are you the least comfortable?”

We’ve had a quick back and forth. I’m bringing us back to reality, and it’s jarring. He’s quiet once more. For a while.

“Turn your camera on.” It’s a command. My fingers leave my chair and fly to the keyboard, but then I catch myself.

“Are you going to turn on yours?”

“I want to see you.”

My suspended hand shakes. This is vulnerability he’s showing me. Even if it doesn’t seem that way. Admitting a desire is hard.

I smooth my hair back, sit straight, and click the icon. The light on my laptop turns green. It’s the first time he’s seen me without a blindfold. I offer what I hope is a warm and not-too-awkward smile.

“At night. In bed,” he breathes.

It takes me too long to register what he’s talking about. I certainly wasn’t waiting for a comment about how I look. Certainly not. Right?

At night. In bed. Well, it could be taken in a certain way. But that’s not what he means. No, he's the least comfortable at night while in bed.

“It’s when the demons come out to play,” I admit.

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

My grin is lopsided. “I’m a therapist. So yes.”

“Personal experience,” he amends.

The point of my tongue traces my left upper molars for several passes. “That too,” I finally concede.

“What made you want to become a psychologist?”

“I wanted to help others.” I smile sweetly.

“You could have done that by becoming a teacher, a physician, or a firefighter.”

---