Who was the woman who revealed her breasts to me in my dream this morning? Who the hell was that? There was the hint of impatience, of forbearance, as she offered me her right breast, then looked askance. Frankly, it could have been anyone, ranging from the shop assistant to mother, to exwife, to Madame X herself. Of course, the extent to which I woke up and failed to take the nipple is the exact measure of my desperation to name the woman. And it's indicative of the reluctance of my unconscious that, easing from a slovenly morning with a quarter pipe and no lunch, I now decide the woman resembles noone other than Tintoretto's Portrait of a Woman Revealing Her Breasts. While it was not a true likeness, it calmed me to imagine this and so, satisfied, finally, I was able to get on with the rest of my day.