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“Maureen?”
“Did you say you wanted me to look in the garbage?”
Co
“Oh, hold on then. I’ll check the trash basket.”
He heard her rummage the trash, and when she came back on the line she said, “Got it. Pensacola, Florida. That okay?”
Okay? It was beautiful. Folger was dumb as dirt. You don’t insure something you’re stealing, Mr. Folger, you stupid stupid son of a bitch. Co
“Thanks, Maureen. I owe you a big kiss.”
“What?”
Co
5
“Nymphomania isn’t a word we use, Tyra
“Uh-huh.” Tyra
Whether or not she found her therapist attractive wasn’t the issue. Fifty minutes a week for eight months had at least taught her that much. Control issues. The warped way she related to men. It had nothing to do with being horny all the time.
Almost nothing.
It had only occurred to Tyra
“Tyra
“Sure. What?”
“I asked if you’d been masturbating.”
“You’re obsessed with my orgasms, aren’t you, Dr. G?”
Goldblatt said, “Do you enjoy thinking I’m obsessed with them?”
“What you mean is do I enjoy your obsession more than I enjoy the actual orgasms,” Tyra
“Is it what you think I want to hear?”
“Did you masturbate today, Dr. G?”
“Now, Tyra
“Yes. Let’s,” Tyra
“Something you mentioned in your last session.”
“That was so long ago I hardly remember.” She wondered if Goldblatt was circumcised. All Jews were, weren’t they?
“You said you’d had sex with three different men in one day. None your husband.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m a nymphomaniac. I almost forgot.”
“There was another man.” Goldblatt flipped through his notebook, found the name. “Co
“No.”
“Why not?”
Tyra
“This is not about my happiness, Tyra
She crossed her arms, sank back into the chair.
Goldblatt waited her out, tapped the pencil.
He’s always tapping that pencil. He knows it drives me batshit. Dr. clever-smug-son-of-a- “Look, I am married, after all.”
“That didn’t stop you from engaging in intercourse with the others,” Goldblatt said.
“The others weren’t-” She waved her hands, groped for words.
“That’s my point. He’s different. It might be significant.”
“Maybe I was just tired. My vagina was sore. I’m a slut, remember?”
“Nobody’s called you that, Tyra
“Did you pick out the paintings in this office, Dr. Goldblatt? About as bland as fucking dishwater. You should let me paint you something.”
“You’re changing the subject, Tyra
“That’s right.”
Goldblatt sighed, squinted at his watch. “We only have a minute left.”
“Oh, darn. I was having such a good time.”
Goldblatt said, “The next time you masturbate, I want you to use a cucumber. Then chop the cucumber into a salad and eat it. It’s important.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid our time is up.”
Freak.
Tyra
Dr. Goldblatt had dug into her brain about Co
Co
She screeched into her driveway, went in the house, threw her purse and car keys on the table. Then to the breakfast nook, hot summer light pouring through the bay windows. She didn’t even bother to change clothes, just picked up the palette and began slinging paint on the canvas. Her project: less a painting, more a frustrated bright smear.
It wasn’t working.
She was pent up.
She wanted to masturbate. Had Goldblatt predicted this? She was supposed to use a cucumber, then eat it. She didn’t know if she was intrigued by the thought or horrified. Goldblatt had always been fond of unorthodox methods, but this was a new extreme. Stupid fucking psychiatrist weirdo.
The doorbell. She answered it.
It was the UPS guy with a load of art supplies she’d ordered off the Web. He was short, pale, soft around the middle. He set the packages just inside the door, had her sign his clipboard.
She grabbed his arm as he turned to leave, pulled him inside. “Come in here a minute, will you? I need your help with something.” Even as the anticipation mounted, there was also the begi
But the alternative was a cucumber.