The outside seating of the coffee shop buzzed with conversation and the pleasant laughter that only bubbles out of well-caffeinated people, but Emmie St. Augustine sat still as stone. With a double shot espresso clutched in her hands, and her eyes fixed firmly on the distant horizon, she would have made a decent picture, immaculately dressed as she was, but the fact that we had been sitting in silence for nearly fifteen minutes somewhat tarnished the image.  

I cleared my throat. "Double shot, eh? Needed something stronger than usual?"

Her eyes didn't so much as flicker towards me. "Mhmm." 

I began, "How're the kids? I saw John's walking now, that's exciting."

She didn't move, not even to show me the pictures I knew she kept on her phone just for our biweekly coffee catch-ups. Trying not to visibly frown, I moved on to the next topic.

"I saw news coverage of the Metro Ball. Looks like there was quite the celebrity turnout. The news station even mentioned your planning company by name."

I might as well have been speaking to her coffee. Leaning back in my metal seat, I tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. The conversations we had at the coffee shop were breezy and amusing—Emmie lived an amazing life and loved to talk about it. The conversation started with her ridiculing my overpriced novelty drink, then moved on to her kids, work, and whatever animal her husband most recently rescued from the shelter.

It was a foolproof formula, guaranteed to produce a nice conversation. So why wasn't it working?

"Emmie," I said slowly, watching her face. "Are things at home alright?"

She met my eyes, then, and upon seeing the concern in my face she immediately relaxed. "Oh, yes, yes. Home is fine, everyone's doing well." 

"Work, then?"

She sipped her espresso. "Work's fine and dandy."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just thinking." She eyed me appraisingly. "You're a psychologist, right?"

"Not the kind that people ask for help," I snorted. "I have several colleagues that would be better for any issues you may be having." I froze. "Are... Are you having issues?"

"No," she said dismissively. "I've just been having odd dreams lately."

I leaned forward. "What sort?"

"I dream of jumping," she said, staring into her drink. "I dream of jumping from the balcony that overlooks the lobby at work, and falling onto that cold marble floor. Sometimes it's not the lobby. Sometimes it's a bridge. But I always wind up at the bottom, broken."

She spoke casually enough—lightly, even—but the words settled like stones in the pit of my stomach. The fresh air suddenly felt blisteringly hot against my skin as the full realization of her words sank in.

"Emmie, are you--"

"I know what you're thinking, and that's just it," she interrupted. "I'm not suicidal. I love my work, adore my family, and have an objectively wonderful life, yet all I dream about is ending it." She raised an eyebrow at me over her coffee. "So what's that all about?" 

I sagged with relief. "You're not...Christ, Emmie, you scared me for a second."

She scoffed. "Please. You're not getting out of coffee day quite so easily." 

Fanning myself with a napkin, I wracked my brains for any remnant of interpretative psychology.

"Current theories say dreams are just your brain trying to make sense of random neural activity," I told her. "But if we [i]want[/i] to go old-school, ah..."

"It's always in public places," she supplied. "And never with a gun, just jumping."

"Well, maybe you subconsciously want people to fear for you?" I rubbed my forehead. "Humans strive for consistency in their thought patterns, and we like other people to view us the same way we view ourselves. So if you're having dreams where other people are seeing you as fragile and unbalanced, then...maybe that's how you see yourself." I looked at her. "But that's absurd, I mean—isn't it?" 

"How do you see me?" she asked softly.

"Strong," I answered immediately. "Determined. Proof that you really can have it all: the family, the job, all of it. It's inspirational, always has been. I see you as someone who conquers life through a single shot of espresso and sheer force of will."

My eyes landed on the double shot sitting in front of her. Hesitantly, I added, "Is that not what you think?"

She smiled forlornly, the shadows under her eyes suddenly pronounced. "I guess not."