“I couldn’t stop looking at his ass,” I blurted out, and then sighed deeply, relieved I had managed to let the words into the air, relieved I hadn’t been struck dead. His ass had looked firm, tough, but like it had a little bit of spring to it. I’d never seen him naked, not even in his underwear, except when he was wearing a bathing suit. I’d never seen a man’s ass at all, or a boy’s. What shape was it? It was hard to tell through his clothes. Was it hairy, like his legs? What did it feel like?

I edged into the kitchen and then behind him, crouched down a little, laid my cheek on it. It was better than a pillow, even through his pants; I thought that word—pillow-as my cheek made contact. But just as my eyelids floated closed and an orange feeling spread through my chest, his body went rigid. I lifted myself away, slowly, willing my body to disappear into thin air. Maybe he hadn’t noticed. Maybe I could transform myself into a ghost.

“What were you doing,” my father said in a monotone, like it wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, which was true. He turned around. I stared at the floor, tiny gleaming white tiles.

“Look at me,” he said.

I couldn’t; my eyes were magnetized, the tiles like teeth.

“Look at me. Now.”

I pulled my chin up and my eyes followed. His eyes were coin slots.

A laugh bubbled in my stomach. I tried to squash it down, but it slid out of my mouth in squeaks. My father grabbed the top of my arm with his fingers and dug them in, his nails burrowing into me, then whirled me back around toward the cabinets. There was the slap of my palms against the wood. Abruptly he released my arm. With one hand he yanked up the skirt of the dress; with the other one he spanked me. I was too stunned to cry. I didn’t turn around, but I heard him walk away, out of the room.

I held the arm he’d grabbed away from me, his fingertips still pulsing on my biceps, my arm a poisoned thing. I stood with my legs apart, as if trying to give my ass as much air as possible; it was stinging. Finally I started to cry over the sink, my tears falling onto the still-dirty dishes. They understood me, I thought—my soiled friends. Finally I splashed some cold water on my face and went to bed.

When I had finished, Freud made a small noise—mm. A noise of sympathy. And then he was silent.