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He scans the last few entries rapidly, and makes some notes on a pad. He then crosses the room again, sits once more, and asks in a practiced, professional voice, “Well, what’s been happening?”
It appears difficult for the second man to answer. The room still keeps something of the closeness and suppressed emotion of the previous encounter, in the air there is even the faint scent of some unknown perfume. The second man does not answer, and a long, deep, possibly troubled silence ensues. The man at the desk slowly realizes nothing will be forthcoming, but he is patient - though perhaps the word is determined – and allows the suspense to continue.
After some minutes, perhaps as many as ten, the man at the table leans down to a little bag, rummages inside for some minutes, then straightens up, holding in his hand a piece of paper. It is crumpled, even after he tries to flatten it and it is also, somewhat surprisingly, handwritten. He stands, crosses the room to the desk, and places the paper (it is a letter) on the desk. He then goes to the door, opens it, and leaves.
The remaining occupant of the room leans forward on his elbows and begins to read.
Peter
No more. No more coming here, sitting, answering you, being made to tell, clarify, remember, reveal, expose, consider, interpret, analyse, recap and just go through it all again. That may be what you want, it may even be for my benefit, as you have sometimes said, but it’s not for me. Not any more. Not any longer. No more Peter no more.
The man folds the letter, puts it in one of the dusty files (taken from the top of the cabinet), switches off the computer, and goes to the window. He looks out.
The door stands open, and the room is still.
