I’d learned this as a child. The first time I could remember was crawling into his lap, picture book splayed open next to us, my thumb in my mouth. He had pushed me off, onto the couch, so quickly it was as if by reflex. “Sit next to Daddy,” he’d said, patting my knee, tap-tap.

I had tried never to break the rule. But there, in the opera, insane and drunk off the music, off my searing aloneness, I couldn’t help myself and let my ear graze the shoulder of his suit jacket. I willed myself to stop, Sit next to Daddy, told myself to lift my head, lift it!—but Touch me, I said in my mind, unable to make myself budge an inch, hoping if I thought it loudly enough, he would hear. I needed him to hear me. I needed him to touch me; I needed him to read my mind. It wasn’t impossible; there were those rare moments he placed his hand on my neck. It could happen, if just for a moment. But he sat still, like a plank of wood. My neck began to cramp; I realized I hadn’t relaxed onto his shoulder, I was just resting my head lightly, not wanting to burden him with the weight of it. Finally, I lifted it back up and sank into my seat.

“And how did you feel?” Freud asked.

“Like I wanted to die,” I said, though until the words had left my mouth, I hadn’t known they were true.

Werther, onstage, was experiencing the same anguish. Moments earlier, he had declared his love for Charlotte in his chocolate-mousse voice—“MY HEART is FILLED WITH DELIGHT. WHAT A DREAM, TO BE CRADLED BY HER GAZE…” My insides had felt pumped through with liquid metal at this betrayal: Werther was supposed to be mine. My loneliness was unbearable. But then Charlotte’s father had entered to announce that her fiancé had returned. Werther clutched his head in despair, just as I wished to do: “REMAIN LOYAL TO YOUR OATH, CHARLOTTE—BUT I WILL DIE OF IT!” His pain rippled through the room.

In the seats, I’d closed my eyes. A high-pitched ringing sounded in my ears, almost drowning out what was happening onstage. In my mind I fixed on the image of Werther, crying out, clutching his head. It made me hot and excited, uncontainable. I imagined running up onto the stage and threading my arms underneath his long black coat and around his waist. My cheek soft against his stomach. He would put his big arms around me, curve his tall body over mine. Remembering this, I became aroused on the couch again—my eyes sprang open. Could Freud tell? I swallowed loud and dry.

“What are you thinking?” he prodded.

“You can tell,” I said, “can’t you?”

“You tell me,” he said, his voice low and suggestive to my ears. I got wetter.