.....I fear......not living,” she said, her words stumbling from her full red lips like a schoolgirl stepping off an out-of-control roundabout. “I fear not experiencing.” He held her eyes in a sweet steel gaze which seemed to drench her body and mind in some kind of warm, smooth liquid. He picked up the notebook and held it out in front of him. “And have you experienced any of this, Paloma?” he asked, his voice lowering to little more than a whisper. She shook her head. He turned another page. “Or this?” She shook her head. “Or this, or this?” “No, no. I haven’t,” she said, lowering her eyes. “And yet you write about it, don’t you. You write about it as though you have intimately felt the power of each word and each thought; as though you have felt them take hold of your body and soul, and move through you as though it was all that mattered in life.” “Yes, I do, and I have. It consumes me.” Dr Kardos turned the notebook around and laid it on the desk in front of him. “I want. I don’t look at her directly. Instead I regard her reflection in the window. I recognize her, or rather I half recognize her. I haven’t seen her face before, only images of her from other angles. She looks nice, a little preoccupied. Her dark hair would tumble down over her shoulders if it wasn’t pulled up and fastened with a bulldog clip. She’s sparing with her make-up; lip-gloss rather than lipstick, just a hint of drama about the eyes. If her cheeks look a little red, I doubt that it’s rouge. I imagine her as a receptionist or something, effortlessly efficient, always friendly.I don’t know, you see. Even though I half recognize the woman, I know very little about her. I’ve never met her, never seen her in the flesh. As we trundle further out from the metropolis, I turn away from the window to focus attention on the rest of her. A tight red sweater gives her boobs a nice shape. They’re not enormous, but they look just fine. Her legs are crossed; shapely legs, emerging from the.
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