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—

Was that such a horrible thing to want? What if that was all I asked for? Just touch me, I silently begged. Put your hands on my face. Forget about fucking, just touch; please, put your hands on my face—

And then, just like that, he did. His fingers splayed over my eyebrows. His palms pressed into the crown of my head.

“Say everything that comes to mind,” he said.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

I relaxed into the pressure of his hands. I wanted him to press his fingertips, hard and harder, until my head hurt—no, I just wanted him to touch me, it was enough. The warmth of his palms on my scalp. His fingers on my forehead. I wished his fingerprints would leave marks, swirls and swirls across my skin. Freud’s hands are on my face, I thought—and an image rose in me of the Metropolitan Opera House, its five arches stretching up like fingers, each one etched with a series of interlocking glass panes.

“The first time I came was at the opera,” I said.