I walked in a daze. I pictured Freud, staring at me as I slapped myself, touched myself, came; but it wasn’t his eyes I conjured so much as that faint pulsation in his neck. The pulsation that meant we were alive together in my transgression. I felt my own pulse, thrumming hard at the memory—me, draped over the arm of the couch; Freud staring at me, my hair curtaining my face; my ass, bare in the room’s chill; the sting of my palm…and yet as I replayed it, again and again, a disturbed feeling began to spread through me.

Was it possible I had wanted my father to touch me so badly I would do anything?

Automatically, I reached for my phone and pulled it out of my pocket. I had forgotten I’d turned it off, and now I felt ill at the thought of confronting whatever had been deposited there. I wondered if my parents had tried to contact me, reproaching me for last night—or if Jojo had texted, to continue our discussion—or Sam, to remind me of my repulsive behavior—or Langham, changing his mind—

I would turn my phone on in twenty minutes.

Or an hour.

Down the sidewalk, a teenager was shouting into her phone, and I slowed to eavesdrop. She was wearing makeup and had already begun to highlight her hair; she was definitely taller than me. But as I neared it was clear she was distressed, and as she yelled into the phone she stomped her foot in helpless rage, making her look so young.

“You told Mom!” she screamed. Was she talking to her father? “You fucking idiot!” Her brother, probably. “I told you not to tell her! I told you it was a secret!”—and now her voice was breaking, she felt exposed and wronged. I hurried past; I didn’t want to hear any more.

The burrito place was small and there were already two people in line. I squeezed in and waited to place my order, then sat at one of the tables to wait, looking out the dirty window onto the avenue. I watched a leaf twist through the air, silhouetted against the purpling sky. I felt mournful. A woman walked by with her pit bull, the leash stuffed into her pocket along with her hand. A breeze blew a piece of garbage into the dog’s side and he jumped into a crouch, tail down. Something about this made me give a hollow laugh, but the woman bent down to soothe her dog, scratching the crown of his head, and I felt even more depressed. It wasn’t just that I’d laughed at his fear; it was that no one cared to soothe me in that way.