She tells her therapist she doesn’t believe he wants her as a client.
“That’s a projection,” he says, crossing his legs. “Focus on what you are feeling when you’re with me. What does your body feel?”
She feels vulnerable. She feels scared. Her throat tightens. Her foot bounces. She longs for him to tell her how she feels.
He says: “You can’t put the thermometer in my mouth to see how you’re doing.”
That’s when she sees it—the parade of people in her life, thermometers dangling from their lips like cigarettes: How am I? How am I? How am I?