Rasmus climbed down from the examination table and adjusted his shirt so it fell flat against his torso and didn't get caught up on the waist of his slacks. He had the distinct impression that this nurse or doctor or whatever she was — for the sake of posterity he would forthwith think of her as the researcher — thought he was something of a nuisance. Not that he could pinpoint exactly what it was. Perhaps to was that leveled tone in her voice? The pause in her comments? The sigh?
Not that he would let it bother him. Rasmus would have forgotten all about it five minutes after leaving the clinic. He was judgmental where everyone was concerned. Her heels, for example. He had a lot to say about her heels. But he kept it to himself because he had to remain on good terms with the people of the Minute Clinic. He did not want to have to go to Atlantic City to find a physician. That would be a complete waste of his time and money.
Besides, they could be human.
So even though he thought she would flatter her figure more with a pair of flats and less bold fabric tones, he didn't say anything. She had the witch crackers, after all. And those sounded like they'd go great with a bottle of cabernet and a Red Hot Chili Peppers documentary.
When she offered him the bag he snatched it like it contained gold.
The dragon with the hoard of antacids.
"Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I have trouble with my emotions sometimes. I just ... I have a lot on my mind all the time. I don't relax well."