Hard love

Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy.  He is staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal.  He doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time.  Instead he finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.  Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior.  I've never been to a therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.  Or maybe he's both?  Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have the budget for both.  They don't even have the budget for proper shoes. 

He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers.  Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts?  He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more. 
"Anna.  Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday."  Megan?  My friend?  I suppose. 
"Yes?"  He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me. 
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight.  You called her after, didn't you Anna?  Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging.  They heard something hit the wall.  Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me.  I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms.  Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next.  Breath.  In.  Out.  Reply.
"No.  No, I don't want to talk about it."  This was the wrong answer.  He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze.  I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna.  This is going to help you.  I want to help you.  Did you and John argue often?"  If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned.  Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face. 
"No.  We didn't.  He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on.  He likes it ready when he gets home.  I was tired and I forgot and we fought." 
"Did John hit you, Anna?"  This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks.  He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table. 
"No.  John would never hit me.  He loved me.  The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall.  John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive."  The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file. 
"All right, I think that's enough for today.  We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready." 

After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist.  A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.