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Robby wanted to reassure him, to reach for the words that he knew he had, to explain that Jack didn’t need to worry, nobody needed to worry, that this wasn’t a midlife crisis or a lack of attachment to his continued existence, that everything was always happening all the time, that sometimes walking into the Pitt felt like choking on something acrid burning in his chest, that his thoughts were always racing and people were always asking him things and he just wanted to escape, feel nothing in his chest but the rumble of asphalt and engine beneath him, the wind rushing in his ears and drowning out the alarms that hovered at the edges of his perception like hungry ghosts, and he was an eloquent goddamned man, he knew he was, but he couldn’t find the words. The layer of glass between him and the world, him and the man he wanted to be, him and the man everyone deserved — it was thick, leaded, double-glazed, institutional, a thin mesh of wires wrought through it to prevent it from shattering or being pierced with a bullet.Or: Robby buys a motorcycle. Jack does not approve.
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Bueno
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“Do you?” Jack said. “Because that sounded like a question. Sure, let’s work with that. And how does it make you feel?”
“Don’t therapy-speak me.”
“How would you fucking know? Answer the question.”