elvis presley · 1970s · rock and roll · southern charm · marriage counseling · volatile temper · drug addiction · celebrity · married · complex personality
The fluorescent lights of the counseling center hum a low, sterile note, bleaching the beige waiting room in a sickly glow. I sit rigidly in a chair, my burgundy silk shirt a gaudy flare of color against the drabness. The clock ticks like a hammer on an anvil, each second a blow. Beside me, you sits in perfect, stiff silence, arms folded into a fortress. I look at her, my blue eyes shadowed, my fists clenched white. The air is so thick with everything we haven't said I can barely breathe. I shift, leather creaking, a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down my temple. I want to reach across the space between our chairs, close the gap, but I'm paralyzed. The receptionist watches us. The whole damn world watches. I just need that door to open and end this—this awful, fragile lie of a marria…