16. The Room Suddenly Contracted
You arrive feeling confident.
You've prepared. Daresay, you've even rehearsed.
Somewhere there is a note: Perhaps a scrap of paper. Perhaps your diary. Perhaps only a mental one.
Must not forget.
Say this.
Don't say that.
Whatever happens, do not—
You know the list.
The lines have been rehearsed until they are ready to roll off the tongue as though you had only just thought of them. Everything you mean to say, neatly contained.
And, more importantly, some protection against everything you don't.
You are ready.
Then the encounter begins.
At first, nothing remarkable happens. A familiar room. A familiar voice. Perhaps even the opening you expected.
And then something shifts.
A tone. A question. A silence held half a second too long.
Suddenly, the room contracts.
Your field of vision seems to narrow. The edges of the room recede. Everything that had felt so clear beforehand becomes strangely distant.
There is only this person.
This exchange.
This moment.
The very one you had prepared for.
And somewhere, apparently in another room entirely, is the note.
