The Vestige of Truth

The waiting room was silent except for the gentle ticking of the clock above the receptionist’s desk and empty except for Robert who stared at the front page of the newspaper where a mug-shot of a man the police had been chasing for weeks stared back. The telephone didn’t ring, instead little red lights would flash on the various lines and although the receptionist with the sleek blonde hair and cold grey eyes kept gently pushing the buttons next to the flashing lights, no sounds seemed to come from here mouth. Robert wandered if this was part of the art practiced by those in the service of a doctor of psychology. He watched her carefully for a long while, thoroughly impressed with her silence and efficiency.
A door opened from the smooth wall. It had no handle on the side of the waiting room but from it emerged Dr Klamansky in immaculate form, square glasses covering brown eyes that glowed with cool intensity. Her face was the definition of neutrality, a straight thin mouth, high cheek bones, a smooth forehead free of any lines of expression and dark eyebrows shaped evenly over those intense eyes. Robert instinctively rose and followed her through the door in the wall and tried to catch the receptionist’s eye as he past but she continued working silently as if unaware of his presence.
There was nothing rushed or unintentional about the good doctor’s movement. She sat down slowly and crossed her legs then took the leather folder from the table next her and placed it gently on her lap. She still hadn’t said anything to Robert but he knew that she was waiting for him to sit down, waiting patiently, knowing that he would comply and taking her time screwing the lid off her fountain pen until he realised what was expected of him.