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Show on the deck of his sailboat, his eyes off in the distance, a huge red sun setting on the sea behind him. Him and the sun, that's what I see. But if I didn't also enjoy watching him do his job, leaning forward or back with quick feigned interest in his tight-fitting polo shirts, a little alligator or penguin or umbrella floating on his athletic chest like a seal of approval, I probably would have told him off a long time ago. Told him to go to hell with his professional prodding and well-mannered meddling. But instead I look forward to our little sessions. I admit it. And to make them more interesting, I provoke him with selected truths. So when he asks me on Wednesday what I've been writing about, I won't mention that jerk Owen at all. I'll say, "Dublonsky, I've been writing about you." When the dermatologists told me a year ago that I was going to begin seeing a shrink I said like hell I am. They got stuffy and said like hell I wasn't, it was part of the new treatment. Take it or leave the Medical Center. "All I ever hear about are new treatments," I screamed at Dublonsky that first Wednesday afternoon. "You know, I've just about had it with this goddamn place and your goddamn new treatments." "Now, Miss Voit. The only thing people here want is to help you." "Help me shit. All they want to do is poke and scrape at my |