WHO AM I ?

her eyes move around the room as she talks, fingers picking at one another. it's strange how much this place reminds of her home. shirley's funeral parlor is stale; its' harsh lines and edges rounded with scratchy upholstery and fake flowers just enough to be considered comforting. but this place, this place breaths.

' oh, i um. i'm terribly sorry. ' at once that book slapped shut, the sound a little louder and more abrupt than he would have liked, before he is standing at his desk. the pads of his fingers rub little circles in the wood, and damp knuckles press against the grain. there was no sudden cure-all of grief, and ezra had never been very good at the more socialized aspects of his career. he knew much about the dead, but not so much about what might placate the suffering of a loved-one after the dead had passed. ' you. your sister. a funeral home? oh she, yes.... yes she runs one as well ... i ... '

his mouth is so dry. a hand lifts, then reaches down to turn the untouched glass of brandy until the logo faces the other side. she is pulling at her hands, yes. a very pretty woman, but nervous. so is he. ezra can see the way her fingers pick at the nailbed, the way her eyes drink in the nicotine-stained wallpaper, the familiar footfalls of her little shoes against the wood. he does not like having people here. the receptionist was nowhere to be found.

finally, he's bursting: ' counseling. '