It’s cold. He thought it’d be. He imagined that it’d be an assortment of things. Most of them would make him uncomfortable, others he wouldn’t mind.

He has a good amount of apprehension about being here. He’s Trent King. He has an image. He’s a somebody. So, what the fuck is he doing here?

The forbidden beauty he’d imagined and the revelation that she didn’t exist--only a fragment in his imagination, only a lapse in his mind due to some imbalance--has brought him here. This imbalance? Caused by stress. Cause of stress? Life.

Trent’s life… Twenty percent friendship. Spencer had been Trent’s best friend and that friendship was suddenly smashed by Spencer’s inability to cope with a cheating girlfriend and Trent’s bringing it to light. That fateful afternoon, in a sunny part of town, Trent walked into that restaurant a friend and seven bucks shorter.

Ten percent family. Trent was adopted at fifteen and immediately became close with his family. In college, Trent received the news of his father’s death. His grief was only a blip in his hectic life, but it did enough damage. His mother grieved longer and has yet to stop. And Trent has yet to give her a reason not to.

Twenty percent SSW. His job. The daily hustle. In the few months following up to his breakdown, he watched this place he loved some much become overrun with whining, unprofessional bitches. And as the people with whom he associated dwindled, SSW died in Trent’s eyes. And when he allowed someone like Stu-E Price to represent the federation as Supreme Champion, Trent knew he’d taken part in SSW’s misfortune.

Twenty-five percent alcohol. Need there be more said?

And twenty-five percent sex. Trent’s vice that seemed to help him cope most efficiently. He’d has a few serious relationships. In college, there was a girl. Broke his heart, unable to fulfill him emotionally in his greatest time of need. There was Christian, an actress. They were perfect. And it only ended because Trent couldn’t handle perfection, for fear of fucking it up. Then Beatriz Batista; she fell into all the categories. A friend, close and cared for like family, wrestled in SSW along with and against him, a drinking buddy, and ultimately, his Girl Friday Night. But they’re two troubled orphans using sex as a surrogate for affection. They’ll never be more than really good friends. They’re on the same side of the river, but fishing for different things.

So, what the fuck is he doing here? Only time will tell. And her time costs three-hundred dollars an hour.

Tension settles in, as she takes a seat across from him. Her face plain, not dead or boring, just plain. Outfitted in a neutral-colored suit--a nice blazer and skirt. She takes a pen from behind her, taps it against her clipboard and rakes, behind her ear, a string of blondish-brownish hair, which is pulled back into a sloppy bun.

Everything about this woman screams indifference, in-between, no definite position. Only there to observe. Kinda voyeuristic.

Tapping her pen, looking down at her clipboard, “Hello, Trenton—”
“You can call me Trent.” He interrupts.
She looks up. “Okay, Trent. I’m Doctor Reid.”
“Can I call you Doc?” He’s not flirting, just trying to avoid what’s to come.
“That’s fine…So, I can sense that you’re a little tense about being here.”
“Yeah…Just a little.” Sarcasm, a coping mechanism.
“And that’s normal. Most people are kind of intimidated. So, just think of me as a friend you’re talking to.”
“I don’t pay my friends for conversation.”
“Well, your friends aren’t psychiatrists.”
“Actually, one is studying to be one. Well, former friend…” His words trail off.
She writes something. “Okay, let’s not waste time. We are on a schedule.”
“Yeah…”
“As an introduction, I need you to answer for me: Who are you?”
“Who am I?” A question of a question.
“Yes, who is Trent King?”
Searching, “I’m a pro wrestler.” In a sort-of asking way, seeking approval.
Her eyes pierce his, prompting him to go on.
“I’m a pro wrestler…I enjoy long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners.”
She didn’t think it was funny. “Now, is that true? Is that all there is to you?”
“Y’know what? This isn’t for me. Sorry, I wasted our time and my money.” He stands, leaves.
“Your next appointment is Wednesday at two o’clock.”

The door closes. And he quickly exits the building, stepping out into the world…worst off than when he went in…