I can't say we did.

And yet, rather in the manner of Bergh's Nordic Summer Evening, there was an entire lake of desire between us. We did nothing but fake a gaze into the distance. Of course, we were talking over the desire, intensifying it. I was deeply unprofessional. It is my job to wade into these waters but in opting for the pleasures of restraint and the coy I have, therapeutically, failed her. And yet, she did not want it any other way, seeing my analysis of our desire as a weakness in me, and a rebuke to herself. And certainly, under this happy, willful denial an ancient imperative, nothing less than life itself, was grinding away. It is this fierce instinct that knows it is in client R.'s best and permanent life interest to use her unknown, unconscious needs in the service of the flesh. The dumb will of biology is the winner here. In short, she is too young for the therapy we practice. All the energy in her unconscious, defensive stratagems will make her career, find her a husband, and lend the final push in the happy conception of another, altogether different life. It's not for therapy that she needs me. Rather, she would like a confirmation of her power to achieve those life events and, with time running out, sex is the way to go. I could point this out to her, of course. I could do that, then recline with a half pipe and a slim volume of verse. Or I could meet her in the marshlands of our mutual need, and fuck the day to death. It could go either way, frankly.