“This is the absolute worse conspiracy theory ever, man,” I tell him.
Falter.
Loomis clears his throat. “Your perception of the present, your recollection of the past. your imaginations of the future, the parallel.”
“You're losing me,” I tell him.
Think about why he's saying all this. What he could possibly seek to gain. How this fills some quota.
Think through him.
fantasize about, who, Anna? Sure. But others, too. Nameless people who actually exist somewhere. I can’t tell. Oh, can an airport make you beautiful.
“No one can make someone realize something. We all have to realize it on our own.” Loomis. “But you can leave clues.”
sk, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you saying this shit?” I demand.
Loomis smiles. “Because sometimes you’re not sure if any of this is real or not. Sometimes you’re not sure if you’re asleep. Sometimes you think we all might be imaginary.”
Loomis freaks me out and I check my wrist for the time. Shift in my seat.
“Or maybe that’s what they want you to believe.”
He takes off his glasses, stands, and goes back to the desk.
From a file, he asks, “What would you say your biggest fear is?”
blink. falter. recover. recover.
“That that shit you just said might be true,” yell.
Loomis smiles, again. Ugly.
He looks up, sees me.
“Well, hello.”
“Hello, you fucking bastard.” I tell him, “Hello.”
Loomis stops, looks confused, looks at the file and back at me. He notes something. “Now tell me, did any of that conversation seem combative to you?”
“No, it was roses.”
“I see.”
“You see?” Unimpressed.
“Remember we're all just trying to help.”
Fucking bastard.