“Good morning,” he said. “Come in.”

He stood aside and I entered, took in the room: cozy, full of books on wooden shelves with glass-paned doors, an armchair, a low broad couch. A small window looked out onto a tree, just beginning to turn. There was an intricate old rug covering the wood floor. Antiques everywhere. One, hung on the wall, was a bas-relief of a woman walking, her robes flowing around her. There was a painting of a woman, half fainted against the man behind her, who propped her up in his arms. Another man stood next to them, lecturing to a roomful of note-taking spectators, all men in suits, as though she were a specimen for study. They were doctors, perhaps; I wondered what had befallen her. Beneath the painting was Freud’s desk chair, odd and even unsightly: a curved semicircle of wooden armrest supported only by a padded bar running down from the middle.

“It was designed by a friend, to suit my reading habits,” he said.

“And they let you bring it in here?”

“Why not?”

I glanced at him and in a rush remembered pushing him last night—the firmness of his chest, his hand on my wrist. I felt the twist between my legs—fuck me—then, swiftly, the shame—If you sleep with me, you’ll have to dispose of me—my men, being poured down the drain, shredded to oblivion—

I felt dizzy. I closed my eyes. My dad standing in the doorway, That’s very short, the garish carpet, a nauseous swell—

“Could I lie down?” I said.

He gestured toward the couch, then sank into the armchair behind it.

The couch was good. It wasn’t hard enough to feel like an affront, nor did it threaten to swallow me. Minutes passed. The ringing in my ears began to subside. There was a blanket, folded, at the end, and I put my feet on top of it, shoes still on. It wasn’t at all muddy outside, it was a crisp and dry day, but I liked the thought that there might be a clod of dirt on the soles of my shoes that would remain on the blanket whenever I left, if I ever left. Residue of me. From this angle the slats of the blinds blocked out the view; the room was a brown cocoon.

I thought I heard a murmur from the bar beyond the door, but it was hard to tell; he had a fan whirring and it blocked out much of the noise. I had taken off my jacket before I’d lain down, so now I was in just my T-shirt. I crossed my arms over my chest like a mummy. The napkin was far from me—but it didn’t matter anymore, because Freud was here. Watching me. He sat behind me, completely still. I couldn’t even hear him breathe.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“I’m here.”

“Can I pull the blanket up over me?”

“Yes.”

Why did he want me to come back? Why, if he didn’t want to fuck me? Aren’t you curious? But I wanted Freud to touch me, I wanted him to put his hands on my face, my forehead, his warm palms radiating through my mind—