From my short story "Whisper"

The interviews often disgust me, and I suspect today's will be no different. Lee and I are invited to the blue conference room at the far end of the ward, on this, our second day of captivity. Lee's face is a pale reflection in the windows along the corridor, yet the image of his cheekbones and jaw remains that of facetted gemstones, cut in perfect proportion around his jade-green eyes. These eyes have an exotic upward slant that command attention. He is virtually perfect, or so says his girlfriend Nyla.
The psychiatrists who conduct the interviews are disheveled, pompous men who pick at their teeth or socks, or women who ramble indiscreetly beneath a veneer of bright make-up. The psychiatrist today, Dr. Ketchum, is enigmatic in his pressed clothing and verbosity. His face appears odd, with eyebrows that are at least two inches in height and look as if they have been combed straight to the sky. He is like a cat with thick whiskers over his eyes.
Lee is humming the cello line of the Mozart Requiem as we walk. He sings often. Sometimes to obscure my voice, sometimes to remind himself of who he is. To ease the tension I sense building in Lee's brain, I mention the eyebrows.
(Lee, notice the eyebrows, it's Felix- Mr. Cat- look at those whiskers over his eyes!)
If I could laugh out loud, I would.
The doctor turns with a frown to face Lee and I at the threshold to the sparsely decorated room. His stocky frame has become the silhouette of a bear against the winter sun engulfing the room.
"Is there something funny? I'd certainly be interested in hearing the joke."
Lee holds his hand to his mouth, concealing his amusement at my observation. He is six feet two inches tall, about eight inches taller than the doctor, and still he cowers like a boy being reprimanded.
"I'm surprised to hear you laughing so soon after the traumatic events of two days ago. Perhaps you can tell me how this change has come about? I am anxious to know?" The doctor does not relinquish his stance in front of the door.
Lee wants to talk to me though he's trying to stop himself. I feel a sense of implosion, as if I am being compressed. I am a fiery ball of matter being sucked into the black hole of Lee's suppression. It is difficult for me to communicate with him during these moments, but I manage a sentence anyway.