They both move awkwardly; a miss-match of limbs progressing, insect-like, down the hall to the meeting room; the step-step-click-step of feet and the brush and swing of three arms only.
The man with one leg holds the door for him, Sholto placing a palm on the glass above his head to hold it open while he regains his balance and moves inside. They sit next to one another by silent agreement even though at this stage they’ve exchanged nothing more than a nod.
They introduce themselves one at a time around the hub of the councillor, and they talk. Sholto doesn’t say much, though he listens, and that’s nearly as good. The man with one leg speaks only briefly, and only to offer support. He’s been here a while, Sholto thinks. Maybe he’s run out of things to say.
Afterwards, balancing coffee cups on narrow surfaces around the room, the man says, “You’re a major, aren’t you?”
Sholto, who has only introduced himself as ‘James’, feels uncomfortable. “Technically,” he admits.
“Then you are,” the man says simply, in a way that brooks no argument. It irks Sholto.
“I don’t use it anymore.”
Sholto touches his coffee to his lips and frowns; is this part of the group therapy? Owning your past and your identity or some such, or perhaps this is something the other man has been told to work on. He has no answers to the situation and in the end he doesn’t refuse.
“Major,” the other man says before he leaves, offering him a hand. A heartbeat later, Sholto grasps it loosely. The man’s quiet sadness feels tangible between their palms and he regrets his earlier recalcitrance.
“Next week,” he says. The man with one leg nods.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
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