short story

He tapped his fingers against the soft leather of the armchair, staring at his feet. The woman across from him scratched her pen vigorously across the pages of her notebook, enraptured. Her black hair was slicked into an immaculate bun, her eyes dark, yet open. Holly Dao, M.D. “Do you need a moment?” he asked her. She lifted her pen, her gaze and smile flashing back to him. “No, we can move on.