“And your prognosis?” She leaned back, scrutinizing the male across the desk.
“Um…” He fidgeted with his wedding ring. “Err…”
“At this rate, I’m won’t be getting my fifteen minutes of quality time.” Arms crossed, she scanned the room with a huff of disdain. “Tick-tock.”
His fingers tugged at his too-tight collar. “Well, the reports and our tests—”
“Prove, what?” Her swinging crossed leg made her stiletto’s heel to glint in the light like the tip of a black dagger.
His mouth went dry, unable to swallow. “Um, well if you look at—”
“I don’t want to look at the images I can find at home. I’m here for a report. Your verbal presentation. Not a show and tell lesson. I want to know strengths. Weaknesses.” She shifted in her seat. “These chairs are so uncomfortable.”
“I can get you another one?”
“And waste my fifteen-minute time slot. Listen, Mr,” she said, checking her wristwatch. “I want to know the basics. Simple—failure or pass? Brain scientist or truck driver.”
“No one fails grade two and your son is doing well.” Relieved to see her smile, he dabbed at the sweat from his brow, mumbling, “I hate parent-teacher interviews.”
from the flash collection HOME SWEET—NOT.
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