Into the blue Stephen Smythe

Stephen Smythe Into The Blue

Dawn’s consulting room was in the garret of a Georgian building on a street of private practices. She was retiring in the spring – the figures added up – and she was ready. That December morning she had her first appointment with somebody whose company had referred him. His marriage had broken down and he wasn’t hitting targets. She sat facing him, the coffee table with its box of tissues between them. He was late-thirties, pale, dark circles beneath his eyes, his suit too big. She prompted him, but he answered in monosyllables and twitched. In session two, he demanded Dawn give him answers. His voice thickened. What had he done wrong? Why wouldn’t his wife have him back? Dawn cocked her head to one side, then the other, as was her way. She summarised what he said, asked him what he thought, and passed him the tissues. In session three, his head down, his tears forming a damp patch on the carpet between his brogues, he spoke about things he said he’d never told anybody; about that Christmas Day when he’d slapped his wife in front of the kids. How afterwards he’d begged her, said he wouldn’t do it again. And he hadn’t! There’d been the affair at work, of course, but that was two years ago and she’d forgiven him. Then, without warning, she ended it. Fifteen years married for nothing! Dawn looked out at the bare crab apple treetops, at the cloudless sky. In session four, he was red-cheeked and ranting, selfish … heartless … bitch. Dawn squinted as the early winter sun shone in her face. She stood up and walked across the room. Instead of rolling down the blind, she pulled up the sash window, climbed out onto the ledge, and flew away.