gazing down from elevator lintels, the man-high wainscoting standing marble-hard outside my office door. And above any other anticipation was my desire to hear the analysand’s voice once again; for she was, after all, the only person in all of San Francisco I could say with any truth that I knew.
So it was that at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, which last week had been the patient’s appointed hour, I sat very still in my office, sipping air in the smallest quantities respiration would allow, awaiting the next installment of her therapy. The sound machine gave off its torrent; the patient walked past my office; the door to Dr. Schussler’s office slammed shut. And then, after the sound machine ceased its roar, came the sudden, exciting silence.
5.
I’m tired today, the patient began. I don’t know why I’m here. I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t sleep well. My stomach hurts. I have a headache.
Are you ill? asked Dr. Schussler.
No. A hangover.
Silence.
I went to the bar last night. A Little More. I hate that place. I don’t know why I go there. I think I just want to look at the old-style girls, with their makeup and their breasts out to here. Next to the so-called politico lesbians, they’re so sexy. Not a flannel shirt in the crowd last night. God, I’m so tired of women who don’t look like women.
After a long pause, Dr. Schussler asked, Doesn’t Charlotte look like a woman?
The patient sighed. Have I been talking to a wall? She’s a politico. Short hair. Flannel shirts. Jeans. Sturdy shoes. Struggling.
But you said … Her legs …
Muscular. Dyke’s legs. In Doc Marten’s stomping boots. I told you, she loves it when I call her a dyke, but she squirms if I call her a woman. For godsakes, the whole idea for me was to be with a woman. Like Colette said, If I wanted to be with a man, I’d be with someone who could do a pee-pee against a wall.
The therapist said nothing.
What’s the point, the patient went on. What’s the point of talking about this anymore. We’ve talked about it ad nauseam. The entire lesbian community talks about it ad nauseam. Butch, femme. Sexy or sex object. I’m so tired of this. I don’t belong in this so-called community. I want a regular life. I don’t want to change the world, I just want to go to bed with a woman! But I’ve told you this, I’ve told you this.
Yes, said the doctor. You have told me. But sometimes we must go over and over things before their meaning is clear.
I told you. I told you. Over and over. Two years of coming here just to say the same things again and again. I don’t even know why I come to therapy. What a waste of time. A waste of money. I’m not getting anywhere. I should get out of here, not waste my time today. I should go.
After a pause, Dr. Schussler said: Naturally, I would like you to stay, if only to work through this mood, this anger and impatience that takes you over. But of course you can leave anytime you like. As we have discussed, this is all for your sake, not mine.
The patient blew out a breath. Sorry. I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m in a bad mood. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just going to bitch at you, so I should probably get out of here before I get abusive.
But why would you get abusive toward me?
Oh, don’t play that therapist game with me. You know very well what I mean. We’ve discussed it a million times, like everything else. I’m about to tell you to fuck off, so I’d better go before I do.
The therapist gasped softly (this profanity evidently had crossed some prior limit). But immediately the doctor righted herself. She took a long breath, then said in an even tone: All right. Perhaps. If you think that is best. You can go. But before you do, let me ask you one thing. Do you think this anger, this feeling of getting nowhere, of not belonging, has anything to do with the last session, with my bringing up the subject of adoption?
The patient breathed in and out several times.
Fuck no! Why do therapists think everything is about therapy? I went to a bar and wanted to make love to a woman in high heels, all very wrong in the world I live in for some stupid reason. That’s what it’s