brownstone uptown. There was a small garden terrace with candle lights on little tables and chairs and she had gone outside to get away from the air conditioning which was too cold and there at one table her future husband was leaning back in his chair and his face seemed so perfect, like a Greek marble statue. It turned out that ancient Athens was just the right town for him. She should have paid more attention to the clue. Her analyst said that she did just that: pay attention.
One afternoon before her session, Lyla Shulman went to the museum. Perhaps she might pick up a man in the museum. She saw one just ahead of her in line to purchase a ticket. He was talking about something intently to someone just ahead of him. Lyla saw his face when he briefly turned around to glance at the revolving door. He was tall and his hair almost reached his shirt collar. Maybe he was a painter? Lyla thought about what she might say to him, to start the conversation. She considered tripping in front of him and apologizing. Then as he was leaving the counter he put his arm around the man he had spoken to, who was now waiting for him, and she saw that they were together. Had she known all along that her husband was just pretending an interest in her? Was this her choice? When her mother asked her, How is it going with the doctor? she answered, Fine thank you. When I next come to town, her mother said, I would like to meet with your doctor. Never, thought Lyla. Maybe, she said.
Good work, said Dr. Berman to the young analyst. But then she dismissed him twenty minutes early. He thought it would be rude to mention the time. He thought she might think he was greedy. He felt cheated. He was going to tell Dr. H. but he forgot about the twenty minutes she stole from him before his next appointment.
Dr. Berman left the hair salon with a red flush at the nape of her neck where the back of the sink had pressured her and the hair blower had been too hot. She stood on the street, the familiar street. She turned left toward Central Park. She stopped. Should she have turned right? She looked at the street signs but found no clue. She continued up the side street. It was a long block. It was a familiar block but should she have gone the other way? A fear came on her. It was the wrong way. She turned and retraced her steps. But when she got back to the corner she still wasnât sure. How was this possible? It was a passing confusion. Anyone could get turned around in a city where sirens wailed and buses wheezed and crowds pushed into markets and stores, and strollers, everywhere strollers crossing and recrossing streets. Dr. Berman stepped into the curb and hailed a taxi and gave the driver her address. It was only a ride of a few blocks but she was safe and as she stepped out of the cab and saw her own doorman on the steps of the building, she gave him a warm smile. He deserved the large gift she had placed in his envelope at Christmas time.
Lyla sat beside the window looking out at the building across the street. She saw a child running with something in his hand. In the next window she could see a woman who now bent down to the child. She could see neither of them anymore. She turned away from the window. She called a friend from school, now living in Boston, expecting her first child in a few months. They spoke of another friend who had gone to Egypt with her boyfriend. No one had heard anything for months. People just disappear, said Lyla. Come and visit me, said her friend. I canât, said Lyla, Iâm too busy just now. Masterpiece Theatre began, a rerun of Inspector Lewis, who never failed to find the murderer despite his lack of a university education. Lyla called her mother.
Through the cloud, into the atmosphere, riddled with electronic fragments, invisible to the naked eye, one coast to another, speech was carried, instantly. Or was that not right? Perhaps the spoken words were transported without bodies, or form, but like people in
One afternoon before her session, Lyla Shulman went to the museum. Perhaps she might pick up a man in the museum. She saw one just ahead of her in line to purchase a ticket. He was talking about something intently to someone just ahead of him. Lyla saw his face when he briefly turned around to glance at the revolving door. He was tall and his hair almost reached his shirt collar. Maybe he was a painter? Lyla thought about what she might say to him, to start the conversation. She considered tripping in front of him and apologizing. Then as he was leaving the counter he put his arm around the man he had spoken to, who was now waiting for him, and she saw that they were together. Had she known all along that her husband was just pretending an interest in her? Was this her choice? When her mother asked her, How is it going with the doctor? she answered, Fine thank you. When I next come to town, her mother said, I would like to meet with your doctor. Never, thought Lyla. Maybe, she said.
Good work, said Dr. Berman to the young analyst. But then she dismissed him twenty minutes early. He thought it would be rude to mention the time. He thought she might think he was greedy. He felt cheated. He was going to tell Dr. H. but he forgot about the twenty minutes she stole from him before his next appointment.
Dr. Berman left the hair salon with a red flush at the nape of her neck where the back of the sink had pressured her and the hair blower had been too hot. She stood on the street, the familiar street. She turned left toward Central Park. She stopped. Should she have turned right? She looked at the street signs but found no clue. She continued up the side street. It was a long block. It was a familiar block but should she have gone the other way? A fear came on her. It was the wrong way. She turned and retraced her steps. But when she got back to the corner she still wasnât sure. How was this possible? It was a passing confusion. Anyone could get turned around in a city where sirens wailed and buses wheezed and crowds pushed into markets and stores, and strollers, everywhere strollers crossing and recrossing streets. Dr. Berman stepped into the curb and hailed a taxi and gave the driver her address. It was only a ride of a few blocks but she was safe and as she stepped out of the cab and saw her own doorman on the steps of the building, she gave him a warm smile. He deserved the large gift she had placed in his envelope at Christmas time.
Lyla sat beside the window looking out at the building across the street. She saw a child running with something in his hand. In the next window she could see a woman who now bent down to the child. She could see neither of them anymore. She turned away from the window. She called a friend from school, now living in Boston, expecting her first child in a few months. They spoke of another friend who had gone to Egypt with her boyfriend. No one had heard anything for months. People just disappear, said Lyla. Come and visit me, said her friend. I canât, said Lyla, Iâm too busy just now. Masterpiece Theatre began, a rerun of Inspector Lewis, who never failed to find the murderer despite his lack of a university education. Lyla called her mother.
Through the cloud, into the atmosphere, riddled with electronic fragments, invisible to the naked eye, one coast to another, speech was carried, instantly. Or was that not right? Perhaps the spoken words were transported without bodies, or form, but like people in
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