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Show skin. And what the hell has psychiatry got to do with dermatology anyway?" "There's still a lot we don't understand in the field of medicine, Miss Voit." "That's for goddamn sure." "Maybe our sessions will lead to something, maybe not. We'll be doing some studies. Meanwhile, I'm your psychiatrist and you'll be seeing me every week. Is that clear?" "You're not my anything unless I accept you." "Do you accept your skin?" "I'm stuck with my skin." "And you're stuck with me until I say otherwise. Understood?" Oh, I hated him back then and told him so. I told him he was being a prick, a real professional prick, and when he appeared genuinely hurt by my words I was glad. "I refuse to call you Doctor," I said. "All right, Jenny." "You're just Dublonsky to me." "Whatever you say, Jenny." Now, of course, I would gladly call him anything he wanted. At night, alone with my imagination beneath hospital linen, I call him darling. But he is content with Dublonsky, and his content is my sadness, my sorrow. Staring, that guy Owen will not stop staring at me. Every time |