Malcolm Robal slid deeper into his chair, waiting for Dr. Stone to say something and cure him of his pestering condition. Malcolm, had he been six inches taller and 50 pounds heavier, might be mistaken for a catalogue underwear model. As it was, he sported a slight posture, a joyful step, and a slightly protrusive belly, indicative of his nearly-gluttonous ways.
    “I don’t think that is the reason.” said Dr. Stone, hesitantly, and after careful consideration. He nervously adjusted himself in his upright seat, staring intrusively at Malcolm, forcing a return-gaze.
    “It’s nothing personal.” Malcolm muttered.
    “You might not think it’s personal. But ‘Because I don’t respect you’ is a very personal attack, and, uh, I think that it just might be a defense mechanism you’re uh, putting up against me.” Dr. Stone stated.
    “Defense against what?”
    “Oh, anything. Maybe feelings of inadequacy, fear of rejec-“
    “You asked me a goddamn question and I told you the answer.”
    “Uh, well, I think maybe, it was the uh, wrong answer.” said Dr. Stone, simultaneously scribbling notes in a little pad in his lap.
    “It was my answer!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Ask anything! What color is heaven- I say it’s orange! How old is too old? Fourteen! Why haven’t your sessions cured me?” Malcolm paused, lowering his tone and composing himself. He turned his head away from Dr. Stone.    “Because I don’t respect you. Says me.”
    Dr. Stone drew in a deep, cartoonishly thoughtful breath, crossed his right leg over his left, and raised his index finger to his mouth. He then asked, in his most sensitive voice, “Why don’t you respect me?”
    “If I knew why, I’d be cured. I can’t help it.”
    “Why not venture a guess?” continued Dr. Stone, pressing Malcolm to continue.
    “I venture that either I was born smarter than everyone else on the planet, and I am doomed to live as a goddamn outcast because of it. Or… I was born so crooked that I just think that I’m smarter, and I can’t coexist with the rest of the world. Have I ventured far enough?”
    Dr. Stone once again raised his finger to his lips, looking up at the top of his head, deep in thought. After a long pause, he uncrossed his legs and leaned in to Malcolm.
    “Tell me about your mother.” he requested.
    “Jesus.”
    “Unrespectable question?”
    “Yes! I told you, she has nothing to do with it. She didn’t do anything to make me like this. She hardly did anything at all, she was normal like everyone. She has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I can’t even go into movie theatres or walk through the city any-“
“You can’t go to watch movies?” Dr. Stone interjected.
     Malcolm let loose with a massive sigh, not from thought, but from frustration and impulsiveness. Instead of answering the doctor’s question, he turned his body as far away from him as possible, shaking his head at his own frustration.
     “Just ignore my idiocy for the next ten minutes and, please. Why can’t you see movies?” Dr. Stone asked.
     “Because I cry at all the wrong parts. When the girl dies and the hero is tortured, I’m as cold as a goddamn stone. The whole theatre is sniffling and I just sit there like the guy who just killed the girl.”
     Malcolm paused.
     “But when the two lovers meet. For the first time- that first look, when everyone in the theatre is smiling. I… I don’t know why. I just…”
     Malcolm stopped without ever verbalizing the end of that thought. He would admit what he thought to the doctor, even to his face. But he would not play down to him. He just sat, waiting for the doctor to continue his job.
     Hesitantly, Dr. Stone put down his finger, relaxed back into his chair and dropped his guard. He asked, with much caution,
     “I know you’re a very smart person, Malcolm, and I might offend you with such a stupid question. But… I’m sure that… You must’ve, at least thought of, the, uh, possibility that your mother’s suicide has something to do with your… unusual… feelings about, uh, death? Maybe some relation?”
     Malcolm said, emotionlessly, “I expected you to make such an obvious parallel.”
     “You’re right, it is an obvious parallel.”
     “A little simple, dontcha think, doctor?”
     “So it had crossed your mind.”
     “Lots of things cross my mind. It doesn’t mean it’s true.”
     “But it did cross your mind.”
     “I also thought of ramming a pencil through the bottom of your jaw. And I thought of burying myself in a pile of chocolate. And I thought of running naked to see who would join me. Lots of things cross my mind.”
     Dr. Stone just sat motionless, letting his repeated statement sink deep into Malcolm’s head.
     “Goddamnit! Doctor, I’m not depressed or morbid! I’m just so happy at all the wrong times and I can’t stop it and I don’t want to stop it but I know I should for some reason! I love people and I love love and then everyday I walk around and I’m let down harder and harder.
    "Yeah, I know, I don’t sound happy, all thoughts of stabbing you and suicide, but I can’t help my thoughts! And even when I think of these things I’m so happy and I don’t know why.”
    After Malcolm’s explosion they sat in silence for a minute, not looking at each other, not moving at all. Then Dr. Stone asked a question.
    “Then why are you here with me?”
     Malcolm sat up, then stood and briskly walked to the coat-hanger, then lifted his jacket and slid it over his arms. He picked up his hat and placed it neatly on top of his head. Dr. Stone turned towards Malcolm, but made no motion to stop him, or even wonder why he was leaving. Fully dressed, Malcolm turned to the door, opened it and stood at the threshold. Before exiting he turned back to Dr. Stone.
     “Because I’m finding it more and more difficult to live in a world where nobody will go naked and run with me. Next week, Dr. Stone.”
     Malcolm exited the room without waiting for Dr. Stone to reply or even waive to him. The door silently closed behind him, and Dr. Stone was once again alone, with only his thoughts.

THE END