Ballad of the Black and Blue Mind by Anne Roiphe

depressed but not in the way that called for an ambulance. He thought of his family cat Mookie stalking a bird in the garden, silently, slowly, one paw raised, stillness in all the muscles. He would be Mookie in the garden of his office.
    He thought of a firecracker he and his brother had set off one July 4th on the Jersey Shore. It had made a whooshing sound, it had soared upwards, it had set off a few glowing lights in a pinwheel shape and then suddenly it had faded in the darkness a few feet above the dunes. His brother had said it was his fault but it wasn’t his fault. Every firecracker does not succeed in lighting up the sky.
    Words, words, if only his patient would use words and dry her tears and give him some material to work with. When he said that to Dr. Berman the following week, she said, Let her be sad, let her feel what she needs to feel. Dr. Berman spoke in a low, tired voice. She was disappointed in him, or she was tired. He wasn’t sure.
    Lyla considered Bruegel. She considered the painting of Icarus falling from the sky, his wax wings melted by the sun, while the peasants continued undisturbed to cut the hay, feed their horses, carry their vegetables in baskets to the market. Flowers bent their heads in the breeze while Icarus, unnoticed, fell and fell and died in the waters off the shore and if not for the artist, not for the poet, would have been forgotten, wiped away. She felt she was falling. She felt her wings had melted. She felt the water below, deep and lethal. She did decide to tell her analyst and see what he thought about Bruegel, about falling, about the great inattention of the world to the screaming boy headed downwards.
    The young analyst had not seen the painting. He was pre-med after all. She described it well enough. He got the point. Do you think I don’t see you? he asked.
    Do you? she asked him. He waited.
    Nothing.
    Everyone is dying, she said.
    But while they are dying they are living, he said. Was that a pompous thing to say? Maybe? The red button on his answering machine was flickering.
    One afternoon as the light was fading in his office and the shadows were spreading across his oriental rug, the one he and his wife had bought on sale at a rug warehouse in New Jersey, Lyla said, My ex-husband likes men.
    The young analyst considered asking her if she had hints of this before they got married. Instead he was silent, but sitting up very straight in his chair, leaning forward, willing her to speak.
    Everyone is bisexual, Lyla said. I read that in New York Magazine .
    Are you bisexual? the young analyst asked.
    I told you already, she said. I am normal. Aren’t you listening to me? she added in a tone that would have hurt his feelings if he didn’t know that his feelings were part of the tool kit he would use to help his patient and were therefore welcome even when they were not welcome. Lyla Shulman told him her husband had always closed his eyes when she appeared nude before him. He told her, in the last days they had been living together, that he had discovered his true self, a self that could not be attracted to her. It wasn’t personal. It was her gender. It’s not my fault, she said. It is nobody’s fault, said her analyst.
    The young analyst heard his own heartbeat. The session was over at last. Her big secret, at least one of them, was his at last.
    Lyla left his office spilling no tears. She left his office with a new thought. Maybe, she thought, I can, I will.
    Dr. Berman was not pleased with his report. Sex, she said, you think that is all that this about.
    No, he said, not at all. She interrupted him.
    This young woman has locked herself up. Find her, release her, sex is just part of the story. For God’s sake, she said, stop thinking about sex all the time. The young analyst blushed.
    But sex was the subject of his next session with Lyla and the one after that and after that.
    It had begun at a party at her best friend’s house at a