Fiction Segment...

The PhD specialist who tries not to look like she’s boring holes into my head or eyes and seems pulled back a little, distanced-like, asks me to respond. What was the question, I asked. Does it still hurt? What kind of a stupid fuck question is that does it still hurt of course it still hurts what the hell do you have to ask me that for you can see it on my face. Does what still hurt? Oh. Oh, yeah, I say. Sure. Wouldn’t it hurt you? There is something of a grimace or a frown, but I can’t place the look with any one word because although she’s got lots of books behind her chair I’m not sure she’s read any of them lately so it may just be confusion. I bought a packet of suckers yesterday. I cough. This seems to please her. Her pen starts scratching away. In the time it takes her to write down suckers I could have ripped off the cash in her wallet poking out of her lunch box purse about 6 steps away. A long reach maybe. The couch is sticking to the undersides of my legs. I think she asked another question but I’m too fuckin distracted by the fake fuckin leather thing my ass is stuck to. It reminds me that I’m supposed to be sitting down for this. It reminds me how clammy I can be. I don’t answer her question straight away. I move my legs around a bit first. I make sure to look pissed about the peach plastic stuck to my rear. I know what she’s thinking she’s thinking I shouldn’t wear shorts this short and I bet she thinks this is why bad shit happens to people like me. I bet she uses the term people like me a lot maybe to her husband or her kids when they’re being bad. I wonder if she has a couch like this at home and sticks them on it to think about things. Maybe I’m being punished. If so I’m not answering any more fuckin questions I’m just not. Yes, I say. It still hurts.