Inside, Samuel was glad she liked the diary; he had spent most of the day at Barnes and Nobles selecting it.  That, and reading on some of his psychic gifts.  Maybe Lisa would have been angry at him knowing he was actually looking to read on how to reverse or stop these special gifts.  He could sense that the day was too complicated at night; she didn't want to really get into the events that transpired.  They would have time for all of that later; tonight was about something different.<br/><br/>Samuel didn't think he was too picky; he loved Lisa's cooking.  She prepared the plate very carefully for him, so he discerned that being introverted and somewhat careful made her cautious at times.  That, and perhaps he did give a funny look when she served the Quinoa a few weeks back.  It turned out to be very tasty, but he had already upset her that night, so it was too late.  Empathy came at a price.  Normally, that gift was suppressed, but lately he could tell if something really upset her.  He would go to bed with major butterflies, and his dreams were always nightmares on those days.  He hadn't told her this; I mean, why would anyone think it was normal to feel someone else's hurt, and only that person's hurt, at night as if it was some sort of gauge?  The worse part - sometimes it was his defense mechanisms that made it difficult for her.  He couldn't seem to get out of his defense mechanisms.<br/><br/>"Plain; the lines in the book aren't fancy.  But I ... you know, I mean I thought the cover should be ... quality leather."  Again, he stuttered when he talked to her; to others too, but he became especially tongue tied talking with her.  But he would make an extra effort tonight.<br/><br/>He gently took the diary in his hand and flipped it upside down, opened it and commented, "And which way is right side up?  It's a mystery, you can begin wherever you like, the book doesn't lend itself to tell you a starting point.  And I counted.  300 pages, 150 double sided."  Most people didn't examine stuff to this detail, but for some reason - Samuel enjoyed all the details of something so insignificant.  "Oh ... and I checked, in other words ... I made sure any pen could ... you know, so there wouldn't be bleed through ..."  Samuel stopped in mid sentence, composed himself, looked down on his plate, and took one bite of the pot roast.  He would give a compliment, but was fearful of the response.  His Mom was a wonderful cook, but she would wind up saying shit like "And you don't deserve any of it; you fell asleep last night when I was trying to talk to you."  As if a 12 year old child really wanted to hear about how she and her lover were going through a rough patch, a lover she wasn't even supposed to have!<br/><br/>Well, if he was going to voice his concerns, now was the time to do so.  "Remember that exercise you wanted me to do?  I'll do it, but you have to cancel the next session.  I don't want an avalanche of feelings invading me again, not till next year."  There, he had voiced it.  Looking down at his plate again, his fork started playing with his food awaiting a response.  He knew her request was meant to open him up and she had asked off and on for the past two years.  He refused, but the sessions were getting more intense.  The dreams more vivid; he needed a break ... frankly, he needed a way to stop it all so he could go back to his boring life of taking college courses and watching adult films whenever he was trying to mask some sort of hurt and pain.  Problem was, Lisa wasn't about to allow him back into that life any time soon; and Samuel knew when he turned to his addictions, he was running away from helping other people.<br/><br/>"You know Lisa, when I was little.  You know, there was this girl next door ... her and I and stuff ..."  Samuel didn't know what he was trying to gain by saying this.  "We got these two balloons; her floated away accidentally.  So, I gave her mine.  She smiled so much, she was so happy, and you know.  She was so happy, it made me happy.  Not like my mom cared.  I guess what I'm trying to say is ..."  He didn't know what he was trying to say.  "I guess I'm saying ... I don't know."<br/><br/>He gently gave the diary back again, knowing he might have just sealed his doom with his blabbering.  "I guess I'm saying, no - I'm not going back to the police station this year.  Yeah.  However in the world that makes sense."  He scrunched his forehead, confused even at himself.  Then he added, "And no, I don't want to hear about how so and so family is really hurt and needs my help.  What about when I was little, what about my family?"  He realized he was getting himself worked up.  So he stopped, nodded his head back and forth, looked at Lisa for a moment, and then rested his arms on the table and counted backwards from 30 to 1.  At least she taught him how to do that.  "Yeah ... sorry."