My poetry/prose THISBE

Continued:

She smiled,almost as if she had a secret. Like Pandora's box,she held the key to untold legends. 160. He had smugly handed her the papers, like a proud father of a newborn.160. One hundred plus sixty.That was the sum of two eighties; four forties; eight twenties? These numbers, they were digits,random digits. She drew a light gasp from him as he watched her tenderly holding the papers he handed her. Then in that fraction of a second,a flash came over her. It was almost as if lightning had struck her. She felt a sudden overwhelming force engage her as her deft fingers took the lethal task of shredding.Shred,tore,shred,tore. She watched her psychiatrist shriek with horror as her impish doppelganger possessed her to destroy the papers,precious as an imperial scroll,bit by bit to pieces.

"Your IQ= 160." Doctor goggles had muttered,obviously affected by her heinous deed.  She waited to be cruxified, her deep dark circular eyes engulfed his vision. She wondered if her madness was seducing his calm. She wondered if he ever questioned his own sanity. She wondered if those goggles of his would escape unscathed if she perhaps startled him with a turbulent reaction. An epileptic fit perhaps,or a massive jerk to his desk. She wondered why the sun looked so much like a ball of fire,no,a scorching hard boiled egg. With an impish grin,she conversed loquaciously with her mind. Her silence was profound. It beguiled and bewildered the psychiatrist. He knew she was manipulating him,she and her mind games. He was not taken aback by her excellent score, this was not the first time he had been a recipent of her surprises. What he did not understand was,why this magnificiently kempt girl,so painstakingly faired in complexion was so thoroughly depressed. As such,she was of pint size,not in height because she was at least 5,4. But there was something frail,something porcelain about her that made her pint,like a picturesque doll.

She spoke little. Or rather selectively.He was comfounded. Her records stated her as a proficient, argumentative debater from college, but yet she hardly uttered a syllable. Strange. He had the feeling like he was part of her fiction already. She was sizing him up intently,her intense dark irises. They danced in a merry sort of smirk. Someone said the eyes were the windows to the soul. Someone also said, eyes could smile by themselves. This one,this one smirked with hers.

He was used to playing Mozart in their sessions, but that day decided to pick a Kitaro piece instead. A sudden surge of inspiration led him to almost change his mind to Mozart again,but his dilemma came to an unexciting end when he picked the his earlier choice.

She flinched. She started to fidget,opening her clasped palms and closing them in a repetitive motion like a chronic offender. She reacted.

He asked her the normal questions,if she had slept well,if she had felt better,although he was not exactly sure himself what it was she should feel better from. He only caught brief snippets and glimpses of her story when she chose to offer her thoughts randomly. Selectively. She spoke selectively. Once she had asked him if she could browse through his book collection,the other time she had a strange fixated smile as she stared transfixed at his glasses. She had asked him if she could look at his glasses.