✎ Not more surprised than that by the answer of the tall brown girl with green eyes, James keeps his professional expression. The man who has no motivation other than to offer himself the nocturnal services of other professionals operating in a completely different field, knows that a suitable attitude allows him to maintain a minimum of credibility as a school psychologist.
While he thinks of the dinner of the evening which will certainly be summarized with two hamburger ordered at Tino's or with a slice of ham coming straight from the supermarket, to give the change, he sinks comfortably in his armchair in brown imitation leather and although the fanciful words of the beautiful rarely reach his ears, in order to adopt the expression of a man who listens to his interlocutor with interest, he squints slightly then he caresses his unshaven chin.
His eyelids half closed, he observes the fine thighs revealed by a relatively short blue skirt and regrets a little that this girl is a nutcase.
No, that she is mentally disturbed is actually an excellent thing. Thanks to her somewhat sick mind, James' days became less dull however, what a pity that she is only eighteen years old and especially what a pity that she is a student of the school.
Ethically speaking, James refuses to lie on his desk one of his own student girls.
To keep these unethical thoughts away from his brain, which is sometimes a little too fertile, James sighs discreetly.
Three years in the company of the little nutcase have brought James closer to the parents of the young girl who at present, seems to pick invisible fruits that she then brings to her sensual naturally pink lips.
From his school psychologist's eye, based on a purely professional perception and unbiased:
Jenny's mother may not be very clever, but she can make really good apple pie. James doesn't expect much from a supermarket cashier anyway, except a warm welcome when he takes the trouble to grace her miserable home with his academic presence.
The professional of the brain shakes his head when he mentally glimpses the father of the beautiful brunette with green eyes. Not different from his pretty wife, this man with the particularly questionable physique is decidedly not a light either. That said, who asks a miserable garage employee who stinks of gasoline and grease to know how much is two plus two? Not James anyway. As long as the bugger is able to change a tire cheaply, the psychologist will always congratulate him warmly by offering him a cheap beer in the cheapest pub around.
Coming out of his pleasant thought, once again, James makes himself the reflection that in spite of having embraced a school career usually reserved to the dregs of the academics, a certain superiority complex remains in his unconscious of small man with too white arms.
The glance always directed towards the sexy legs of Jenny, James sees in spite of himself the watch that he bought himself last week.
This brief glance shared between his Rolmex made in China found in a bazaar all at 1$ and these enticing thighs, makes him plunge back in a past long ago.
A long time ago, yes it was not yesterday, Martha was also edible...
Not that she was ever a beautiful woman, no, James knows that is certainly not the case.
Unquestionably, Martha could never have won the hotly contested Miss Bacon award that is held each year by the Clems butcher. To be quite frank, whether it was this trophy or any other local beauty pageant, his Martha would have been unable to make it into the top hundred.
However, he believes that his wife was once more or less potable; less ugly than she is now anyway.
For proof, back then he didn't have to drink to touch her. Back then he could caress her without even taking a dozen beer out of the fridge. Those days are long gone. Those were the good old days, as they say, because nowadays, a few big glasses of strong alcohol are not too much to try to ride the beast that must be around a ton.
Yes, this time is over...
Those Sunday mornings under the comforter looking for the belly of his young wife who had already given birth. Those intimate love games of a young couple who, so long ago, could still talk to each other without insulting each other. These complicit smiles, these teases, this youthful and innocent passion that will never return...
Indeed, seeing the lazy old woman who drags her fat ass from morning to night in the house, James is convinced:
The passion is dead and buried many years ago and the person responsible for all this is none other than his fat Martha.
Come to think of it, he had to mourn the loss of his married life around the time his cat couldn't think of a better idea than to throw himself under the wheels of the ice cream truck as the neighborhood kids came running, enjoying their favorite treat in advance.
Besides enduring the shrill screams of these vile children and picking up the pieces of the cat, what a job it was to clean the road...
Getting back to his primary concern, the weather is truly cruel.
That said, there is one fact that is irrefutable,
James can't shake the idea that these years that have gone by so quickly have hurt Martha far more than they have hurt him.
As the poet says:
[Time does not love women.]
What honest man would dare to say otherwise?
He is still elegant, slender and handsome, while she looks like an old waterlogged raisin.
Women can curse the passing days, paint their faces, dive headlong into anti-wrinkle cream and resort to cosmetic surgery to hide the mess, but nothing will change an undeniable reality:
The older they get, the uglier they are.
Reality may be cruel in many respects, but those who deny it are only living in denial.
The butcher of Clems, who is an expert in the field, keeps repeating this:
[Once the smell shows that the game is rotten, no matter how lovingly you cook it, you have to face the fact, it is no longer edible.]
The example can also be applied to fishmonger and seafood.
"Plague on the passing of time! It happened surreptitiously, but I can't deny that little by little, my Martha has metamorphosed into a big, rotten game that now turns uselessly around my legs and prevents my much-deserved social climbing."
As was always the case in these encounters between the depressed psychic professional and the beautiful young woman considered a bit crazy, each speaks for himself without much concern for the other.
If the school psychologist sometimes verbalizes some thoughts, he usually complains internally about his unhappiness.
For her part, Jenny waves her arms in one direction or another. Sometimes talking to the cookies that James has been kind enough to place on the small light wood table in front of her, she agrees from time to time to answer one of the few questions that the professional asks her, who today is wearing the pretty flowered shirt that Martha has lovingly prepared for him.
It is in this hushed, comfortable, almost friendly atmosphere that generally frustrated by the beauty and the youth of the one who faces him, that the failed professional insults discreetly his wife while this same youth listens attentively to the various voices that only she can perceive.
"Rasputin does not like tuna."
Interrupted by this statement that if it comes from nowhere, is nonetheless true, James stops cursing his old wife for a second.
"It's true that he preferred salmon, but how can you know such a thing?"
The girl looks up toward her sexy thighs. With her long legs crossed, her right hand hovers over her left leg. Again, again, again, gently her hand seems to caress something that obviously emanates from her mind.
"He says it's too greasy and gets stuck in his whiskers." ✏