I wanted him to say it: That I was disgusting. That I was ugly, repulsive, too much, and that he did not want me. I wanted the finality of it, the closure: I wouldn’t have to wonder any longer, could put an end to this craving—this excruciating craving! Or was there more—that he couldn’t want me? That for him to fuck me, he’d have to be real?

“I just want to know,” I said. “I want you to say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m disgusting.” This was all I could bear. “Say it: I’m disgusting, and you don’t want me. Say it! Please!” Or: Tell me you are Freud. Tell me you’ve come back for me. Tell me I’m special, tell me we’re a team, tell me we are one.

“No.”

“Why not? Why?” This was it, this was the moment, this was the end.

“Because that’s not how I feel.”

“Yes, it is. It is how you feel!”

“No. It’s how you feel.”

“Is not.”

“You’re desperate for someone to see you, but it’s been so long you don’t know anymore how to let yourself be seen.”

I was so pained by his words it was all I could do not to smack him. “That’s a whole lot of bullshit to spin.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Is it?”

“Fuck me,” I said. “Please. Please!”

“If you sleep with me, you’ll have to dispose of me. Do you really want to dispose of me?”

His question made me dizzy. I imagined pouring all the men I’d ever fucked down the drain of a sink, then flipping a switch to shred them all to pieces. The grating hum of them being ground to a pulp, then sucked away. My head spun. I leaned against the wall beside him. I don’t know how much time passed without anyone saying a word. Night presented itself more fully. The smell of burning leaves emanated from somewhere, my favorite scent of fall. It made me think of a family, far away, in some wooded place, in some long-buried year, sitting in front of a fireplace, someone in a rocking chair, someone in a bathrobe, books, crackling, calm, snow outside, but inside, safe. My eyelids began to droop, my limbs grew heavy as clay—abruptly I had entered the state of drunkenness where continuing to keep my eyes open felt heroic.

“I’m going to go,” I said.

He paused for a long moment, as if giving me room to change my mind. When I didn’t speak, he said, “Come back.”

“And why should I come back?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

I walked home, zigzagging along the sidewalks. I don’t remember most of the walk; the screen flickers. I knew Freud, I was certain I knew him, just as I’d known every man I’d ever fucked, every man I’d ever seen. As I neared my street, the sky was filling with pink. There it was, finally in view: my apartment, my bed—heaven. All I had to do was take about twenty more steps, find my keys, unlock the door, haul myself up the stairs, brush my teeth, undress, and then I could sleep, sleep, sleep.