Maybe she was looking for some assistance in a situation that as yet she hadn’t defined. “Do you want me to call you a cab or something?” she replied, instinctively taking a step backwards, though again being completely incapable of knowing if that was necessary.Mason shook his head, “Not yet,” then took a step forward, matching her step back and maintaining the distance. Sinister again. Was she making too much of this? Her mind raced. Her voice rose a little in pitch as she replied “Look, you can’t just come in here and shut the door on us” – stumbling through the unfamiliar, her words coming faster than she could think about them, “You’re freaking me out”, regretting her words as soon as she’d uttered them, embarrassed, confused.He swept his eyes over her, seemingly completely unmoved – her bare feet on the shagged carpet, the calves that led to the hem of the pencil skirt which began just below her knees, the red blouse that hung loose around her breasts, then her face, free of. "Can I offer you a drink? Whiskey, maybe?" he offered. "Oh, wait. That's right. Rory said you don't drink. Coffee, then? Tea?" No," I replied softly. I was on edge. I was a magician again, a sorceror, like I'd been at the foster home, or the group home, or the halfway house; I could wave my hands in front of my face, close my eyes, and become invisible. Isn't that how dreams went? Even bad dreams? "No thank you."He sat back again and stared at me for a few minutes more. "Okay, then," he said, finally. "You're looking to get a divorce, is that right?" Yes," I responded, still with that wooden feeling. Why else would I come here? This wasn't a social call. The inane chatter only helped to solidify my feeling of hope; this had to be a nightmare, now."Hard thing, getting divorced," he said quietly. Even dreaming, I got the feeling that he was still evaluating me. I got the feeling he had started evaluating me as soon as I'd come in and never really stopped. "I should know. I've gone.
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