Second session, no way am I going to fall asleep.
For one, in the week since that first session it seems like I’ve done nothing but catch up on my sleep debt.
For two, I’m pretty sure napping during my mandatory therapy isn’t allowed. Or it’s a massive waste of taxpayer money. My money? My insurance company’s money?
Whatever.
For three? I’m not a fucking toddler that needs to be put down for a nap whenever I have a tantrum. I’m a grown ass adult, I can stay awake and not talk about my fucking feelings for an entire hour.
I’m going to ice out what’s-her-face.
—
“Hey catch,” I hear the second I step through the door, and a box of cards come flying in my direction.
Super speed isn’t one of my gifts, and I’m not expecting it. Still, it’s pretty embarrassing when it just hits me in the chest and falls to the floor, hands coming up too late to do shit.
What’s-her-face looks at the box on the floor then up to me, skepticism blatant and unflattering.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to say anything.
Super powered vigilante Apex can’t catch a box of cards even with warning. Clearly, her expression says, if it’s not punching something or jerking off, my hands are fucking useless.
“I was gonna suggest we play cards, if you wanted something a little more active than nap time,” she says, tone edging into sarcasm, “but if this is the kind of swift reaction times I can expect from you today, I can just put on some music and do more paperwork.”
Growling, I bend down to pick up the cards, and I can feel the heat on my face. God, am I blushing? This is just fan-fucking-tastic. I kick the door closed behind me–strong enough to slam but not enough to break it–and sit on one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table from her.
“Just deal,” I say, tossing the deck onto the table, watching it spin and slide over to what’s-her-face, “As long as it’s not Go Fish.”
There aren’t many card games that function well with only two people. Bullshit is out, as is Crazy Eights. Poker we try for three rounds before giving up, Blackjack for two. Speed might work if it weren’t for the fact that, if I were to slap something–the table or what’s-her-face’s hand–I’d end up breaking it and that fairly counterproductive. And shitty.
She’s in the middle of teaching me gin rummy–or fleecing me at gin rummy–when a soft chime sound off from her desk.
She glances at the clock and begins packing up the cards even though she hasn’t finished her explanation.
“Time’s up, Curtis,” she says, and for a second I look up at her in confusion, “See you next week.”
~
A/N: Again, highly fictionalized example of counseling.
JackSGreyson Says 