We were standing now. “Can I hug you?” I said, and then our bodies were fused into one. My cheek lay on his chest. He ran his palms along my shoulders, my arms, down and then up again, memorizing me; then he drew me to him again, pressing me close. I could feel his heartbeat against my ear. I clutched his jacket in my fists. My breath was quick against him. I looked up.

“Can I…”

And then his lips were on mine. He kissed in my favorite way, dragging his teeth lightly over my bottom lip, then letting me do the same. I took his face in my hands, then his head, laced my fingers through his hair; he let out a tiny gasp only I could hear. More, I thought or maybe said, more, more, I want more and even more—

A clatter awoke me. My laptop had slid to the floor. The fog was dissipating; I blinked through it, reached down to grab the computer. Miraculously, it was still intact, just dented at one corner. I must have fallen asleep with it still on top of me. The lights were on, but it was pitch black through the window, which meant I hadn’t overslept. I moved my gaze to the radiator, its interlocking little portals; the dresser; the mirror. Yesterday came back in threads: going straight to Freud; the couch; biting his finger—I won your pain—the opera—coming in front of him—fuck—the pulse in his neck—accosting a stranger on the street—what was real? I had gone to my parents’—here my stomach began to turn—Have you ever cheated on Mom?—my mother’s finger, moving in a frantic circle—I don’t remember ever doing that to you—

Hand between my legs. Can I… my hand tracing Freud’s arm—his soft lips, his teeth, his hair in my hands—two orbs of an ass—a stingray, a laugh—my back against a fence—a button, pressing into me—my hair, yanked back—eyes boring into me—

It took no time at all, and I was back to myself.

I had half an hour before I officially had to wake up, so I opened the laptop. The tabs I’d pulled up the night before were still open, and there he was: his intimate glare. “Good morning,” I whispered to the screen, and then my eye flicked to the next open tab, the “pressure technique.” My crotch was still pulsing and I pressed my fingertips into it, not trying to come now but calming myself. My vagina is sick—these words from childhood floated through my mind and I gave a little laugh, pressed more firmly, as if to tell my vagina that it was safe, it was okay, it could calm down now and spring back to life another time. The pressure technique, all right.