money for your time.

her eyes darted from my face to my hands, from my face to my hands, to the position of my legs, back to my face and ever so often to my shoulders and my hands.

i shift uncomfortably for i know she is working at looking straight into me. i do not enjoy knowing this.

and i allow her because i long for the catharsis 50 minutes and too much money promises to promise.

but each time my long and highly paused sentences allow my gaze to disconnect from nowhere in space, and back to her eyes,

i realize that she is never, truly looking back into them, rather just at them;

at the rise and fall of my eyebrows, the breaths of my pupils and where i squirm, and where i don't clasp my arms tight, and where i prefer to move forward and speak.

i do not appreciate being read.

you do not need to know more than i tell you.