Anibal kept wriggling on the couch, unable to get his back comfortable.
Tell me, ¿how was your childhood? ¿Good? ¿Bad? ¿OK?, Chance asked sitting forward in his chair, notepad wobbling on his knees.
Anibal turned to Chance.
I don’t feel comfortable ’bout this. I’m not giving you my private info, no matter how much you pay me.
Chance had a look o’ mock concern on his face.
¿How dangerous could a few innocuous stories be? You don’t need to name names: just treat it like a fiction story.
Anibal finally decided to treat it just like that: by making stories up wholefabric.
Finally, their hour ended & Anibal sat back up, rubbing his back gratefully.
I think we truly accomplished a lot, said Chance.
As Anibal reached the door, he turned back to Chance & said,
Don’t take this meanly, but for your sake, I think this weird fetish o’ yours would be better worked out in therapy.
Chance didn’t say anything as Anibal left; he just had a blank stare.