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Show "The other people, the other people I was writing about were boring." "Like who?" "Like you, Dublonsky. Writing about you was boring." He gave me one of his cute little hurt looks then, one of his pretty professional pouts. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said, "but maybe it's just as well. I've been thinking. Perhaps it's time for us to discontinue our sessions. It's been a year now and we don't seem to have made any headway, would you agree?" "I never wanted them in the first place," I said. "I know," he said. "Maybe you were right. And maybe we should officially end them now." I was quiet. I was hurt. I suppose it showed. How could he do this, after all we had shared, all we had been through together? I felt a wetness at my eyes which I refused to let become tears. "You're just like all the others," I said. "What do you mean, Jenny?" "You don't give a damn about me." "You're being a child, Jenny." I tasted saltwater. I wanted to hurt him; I wanted to get my nails into his blue eyes and blond hair and dark tanned flesh. "I'm not a child," I said. "I am nineteen years old." "There's no reason for you to see me anymore." "I'm a nineteen-year-old woman," I said. "You were right in the first place, psychiatry doesn't have a |