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focusing on my work. Taking this vacation was the one act of selfishness I ever permitted myself, and I needed it. And it wasn’t really so selfish, in the end. I had learned through the years that almost all of my clients did surprisingly well during my winter breaks; surprising to them, that is, not to me. Interestingly, most of them dreaded my absence and acted out in various ways beforehand, and then during their break they discovered unsuspected reserves of strength and self-reliance and came back renewed and purposeful and proud of themselves. Only one or two had ever had meltdowns while I was gone, and those had been handled just fine by the substitute therapist who was on call then, my colleague, Susan Berg, for whom I returned the favor in August.
    I yawned. Oh my God. Last night. I had had roughly four hours of sleep and more wine than I cared to recall. The taste of Peter was excitingly strong in my mouth, and the visceral feeling of his mouth on mine was overwhelming. I took a mouthful of scalding coffee and forced myself to hold it there to make it burn away the sense memory from my tongue.
    In the shower, I scrubbed myself all over, washed my hair twice, brushed my teeth till they squeaked. I had been too drunk the previous night to do anything but fall into bed half-clothed, reeking of God only knew what. I wondered now whether Anthony had somehow suspected anything. Sometimes he fell sound asleep in his study and roused himself at three o’clock, awakened by his bladder, and then he took a pee, brushed his teeth, and came to bed. If this had happened the night before, he would certainly have noticed my absence and wondered about it. And if he had awakened during my brief tenure in our bed, he would have smelled the booze on me, unless he was so boozed up himself he couldn’t tell the difference between his alcoholic breath and my own.
    But no matter what, he would never think, not in a thousand years, that I would do anything as foolish as what I’d done. I was the model of sober rationality. Thank God for my hobgoblin, small-minded consistency, I thought. It was useful camouflage, now that I had lapsed.
    While I blow-dried my hair, I studied my face in the mirror, dismayed. I looked like shit. I had puffy bags under my eyes that did my crow’s-feet no favors, folds by my mouth and nose, forehead creases. Staying out all night and getting drunk used to leave no mark whatsoever anywhere on me; now, especially at this time of year, I might as well have hung a sign around my neck that said I’M PAYING THE PRICE FOR NOT ACTING MY AGE. That beautiful woman I had seen in the mirror the night before must have been a wine and candlelight and lust-inspired mirage. I put on lipstick and mascara, which did nothing to help my plight, but it cheered me up a little. I dressed in a pair of tailored black wool trousers, low-heeled ankle boots, a cream-colored sweater, and a charcoal gray blazer. With a pair of earrings and a slender gold bracelet, as well as a black wool coat and cashmere scarf, my disguise was complete. In the unimpeachable persona of a successful middle-aged Manhattan clinical psychologist, I rode the elevator down to the street and walked to my office near Union Square.
    The streets of Chelsea were filled with twinkling Christmas lights, grimy ice and snow, merchandise aggressively displayed in windows with boughs of holly and pine wreaths, decorated, lit-up trees. The Christian Advent was a dark, difficult time of year, a season of soul-searching, stress, and loneliness, short days, long nights, obligations, insomnia, family tensions, financial worries, longings and regrets, the ghosts of old fears and sorrows. I looked into the faces of the people I passed and felt compassion for all of them, no matter who they were—that fat old guy with bushy eyebrows who was wearing a quilted olive green jacket, those two young Latinas in tight jeans and down coats with fake fur trimming on the hoods, that