POSTSCRIPT II

Well why shouldn't I....? For seven years ( seven!), the therapist has been playing with us. Seven years of reading a story which has no end....! The one thing a story should promise is an ending, a last page so that finally you feel the hard cover of an end, but he's never done that. He carries on and on like a man who doesn't know he'll die. After all, how is a love sustained but for the death within it? In short, he never allows us the final intimation of our needs, does he? And yes, our needs are as great and hey, guess what, maybe even greater than his. Well someone has to remind him. There, I said it. He's been leading us up the garden for seven years and I've had enough. But why shouldn't I have some fun, too..? Why should I tell everything that happened that day in his house? Can't I play around a bit, like him? No, I won't. I won't, because I am better than him. But not tonight. I'm tired and it's been a long day.

CH