buy her a drink. Again. The conversation had been boring, the night dragged. She had excused herself, telling him that she had to go to the ladies’ room.
When she walked out of the hotel a few minutes later, she found him waiting on the street. He followed her up Fourth Street for almost three blocks, closing the distance little by little, moving from shadow to shadow.
As luck would have it—and luck was something that played a very small role in Eve Galvez’s life—at the moment the man got close enough to lay a hand on her, a police car was trolling slowly by. Eve flagged the officers down. They sent the man packing, but not without a scuffle.
It had been close, and Eve hated herself for it. She was smarter than this. Or so she wanted to believe.
But now she was in her therapist’s office, and he was pushing her.
“What do you think he wanted?” he asked.
Pause. “He wanted to fuck.”
The word resonated, finding all four corners of the small room. It always did in polite company.
“How do you know that?”
Eve smiled. Not the smile she used for business, or the one she used with friends and colleagues, or even the one she used on the street. This was the other smile. “Women know these things.”
“All women?”
“Yes.”
“Young and old?”
“And every one in- between.”
“I see,” he said.
Eve glanced around the room. The office was a gentrified trinity on Wharton Street, between Twelfth and Thirteenth. The first floor was three small rooms, including a cramped anteroom with bleached maple floors, a working fireplace, brass accoutrements. The smoked- glass end tables were populated with recent issues of Psychology Today, In Style, People. Two French doors led to a converted bedroom that served as the office, an office decorated in a faux- Euro style.
In her time on the couch Eve had met all the Pams—clonazepam, diazepam, lorazepam, flurazepam. None helped. Pain—the kind of pain that begins where your childhood comes to a deadening halt—would not be salved. In the end, when night became morning, you stepped out of the shadows, ready or not.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I apologize for my crude language. It’s not very becoming.”
He didn’t chastise or excuse her. She hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he glanced down at his lap, studied her chart, flipped a few pages. It was all there. It was one of the downsides to belonging to a healthcare system that logged every appointment, every prescription, every physical therapy session, every X- ray—ache, pain, complaint, theory, treatment.
If she had learned anything it was that there were two groups of people you couldn’t con. Your doctor and your banker. Both knew the real balance.
“Have you been thinking about Graciella?” he asked.
Eve tried to maintain her focus, her emotions. She put her head back for a few moments, fighting tears, then felt the liquid warmth traverse her cheek to her chin, onto her neck, then on to the fabric of the wing chair. She wondered how many tears had rolled onto this chair, how many sorrowful rivers had flowed through its ticking. “No,” she lied.
He put down his pen. “Tell me about the dream.”
Eve plucked a few tissues from the box, dabbed her eyes. As she did this she covertly glanced at her watch. Wall clocks were scarce in a shrink’s office. They were at minute forty- eight of a fifty- minute session. Her doctor wanted to continue. On his dime.
What was this about? Eve wondered. Shrinks never went over the time limit. There was always someone scheduled next, some teenager with an eating disorder, some frigid housewife, some jack- off artist who rode SEPTA looking for little girls in pleated plaid, some OCD who had to circle his house seven times every morning before work just to see if he had left the gas on or had remembered to comb his area- rug fringe a few hundred times.
“Eve?” he repeated. “The dream?”
It wasn’t a dream—she knew that, and he knew that.
When she walked out of the hotel a few minutes later, she found him waiting on the street. He followed her up Fourth Street for almost three blocks, closing the distance little by little, moving from shadow to shadow.
As luck would have it—and luck was something that played a very small role in Eve Galvez’s life—at the moment the man got close enough to lay a hand on her, a police car was trolling slowly by. Eve flagged the officers down. They sent the man packing, but not without a scuffle.
It had been close, and Eve hated herself for it. She was smarter than this. Or so she wanted to believe.
But now she was in her therapist’s office, and he was pushing her.
“What do you think he wanted?” he asked.
Pause. “He wanted to fuck.”
The word resonated, finding all four corners of the small room. It always did in polite company.
“How do you know that?”
Eve smiled. Not the smile she used for business, or the one she used with friends and colleagues, or even the one she used on the street. This was the other smile. “Women know these things.”
“All women?”
“Yes.”
“Young and old?”
“And every one in- between.”
“I see,” he said.
Eve glanced around the room. The office was a gentrified trinity on Wharton Street, between Twelfth and Thirteenth. The first floor was three small rooms, including a cramped anteroom with bleached maple floors, a working fireplace, brass accoutrements. The smoked- glass end tables were populated with recent issues of Psychology Today, In Style, People. Two French doors led to a converted bedroom that served as the office, an office decorated in a faux- Euro style.
In her time on the couch Eve had met all the Pams—clonazepam, diazepam, lorazepam, flurazepam. None helped. Pain—the kind of pain that begins where your childhood comes to a deadening halt—would not be salved. In the end, when night became morning, you stepped out of the shadows, ready or not.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I apologize for my crude language. It’s not very becoming.”
He didn’t chastise or excuse her. She hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he glanced down at his lap, studied her chart, flipped a few pages. It was all there. It was one of the downsides to belonging to a healthcare system that logged every appointment, every prescription, every physical therapy session, every X- ray—ache, pain, complaint, theory, treatment.
If she had learned anything it was that there were two groups of people you couldn’t con. Your doctor and your banker. Both knew the real balance.
“Have you been thinking about Graciella?” he asked.
Eve tried to maintain her focus, her emotions. She put her head back for a few moments, fighting tears, then felt the liquid warmth traverse her cheek to her chin, onto her neck, then on to the fabric of the wing chair. She wondered how many tears had rolled onto this chair, how many sorrowful rivers had flowed through its ticking. “No,” she lied.
He put down his pen. “Tell me about the dream.”
Eve plucked a few tissues from the box, dabbed her eyes. As she did this she covertly glanced at her watch. Wall clocks were scarce in a shrink’s office. They were at minute forty- eight of a fifty- minute session. Her doctor wanted to continue. On his dime.
What was this about? Eve wondered. Shrinks never went over the time limit. There was always someone scheduled next, some teenager with an eating disorder, some frigid housewife, some jack- off artist who rode SEPTA looking for little girls in pleated plaid, some OCD who had to circle his house seven times every morning before work just to see if he had left the gas on or had remembered to comb his area- rug fringe a few hundred times.
“Eve?” he repeated. “The dream?”
It wasn’t a dream—she knew that, and he knew that.
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