"Close the door."

She rolled up the window and clicked on the overhead light. Our breath fogged the windows. Seated, her long legs tucked under the dash, Cynthia Jalter was the same size as me. The car was s.p.a.cious, but I still felt huddled in a tiny place with her, like t.i.tillated children playing in a cardboard box.

She dug for something in her purse. "Here." She appeared with a thin, hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth, a lighter in her hand.

"What's that?"

"Drugs," she said, m.u.f.fled through pressed-together lips. She ignited the cigarette. The surplus paper flared, then died, and the tip pulsed orange.

"Don't set your hair on fire. I've forgotten how to smother the flames of a burning woman inside a car. What's that called, the Leibnitz Maneuver? Anyway, I've forgotten it."

"Come here," she said, squeezing the words out airlessly. She crooked her finger and bugged her eyes.

"I am here. You know, I have to go back inside in a minute and carry on both ends of a very important conversation-"

Cynthia Jalter put her hand behind my neck, caught my mouth in an open, pa.s.sionate kiss, and blew a lungful of smoke down my throat. I gulped, swallowing some of it, rerouting a measure through my nose, and inhaling the rest.

"You're not going back in there," she said. "You're coming with me." She wiped a porthole in the foggy winds.h.i.+eld, and s.h.i.+fted the car out of neutral.

I spewed my smoke into the tiny airs.p.a.ce of the car, filling it completely. "You are with the mob, I knew it. This is a hit."

"Yes."

"I don't have my coat." I hiccupped out more smoke.

"You'll be fine." She steered us out of my driveway, meanwhile drawing on the joint again, then pa.s.sing it to me. I inhaled a smaller, more manageable portion. My head was already swimming, probably just from holding my breath. As I puffed inexpertly, the sealed s.p.a.ce of the car continued to fill with smoke, becoming a kind of iron lung.

"Where are we going?"

"To my office. Give me that." She smoked aggressively, her eyes on the road. "Take this." She handed it back.

"Why are we smoking this?" I asked between breaths.

"To relax."

"Why do we want to relax?"

She didn't answer. We pulled up outside her office and got out in what must have appeared to be a minor explosion of smoke. The streets of Beauchamp were oddly quiet. Cynthia Jalter unlocked the door and we went in.

When she switched on the lights the Muzak appeared too, surprisingly loud. I noticed how intricate and well-played it was. Cynthia Jalter unlocked her office and drew me inside.

"Wait," I said. "Listen to this."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how to turn it off."

"It's beautiful."

She smiled. "Come with me."

"Actual people played this music with actual instruments at some actual time," I said. "Think of that. Actual musicians actually playing. In a recording studio. With ashtrays and cups of coffee, probably. They must have done dozens of takes sometimes. This might be take six on this particular tune. The keeper."

"They probably always get it right the first time."

"Do you think there are bootleg tapes of Muzak outtakes? Maybe they get excited by the groove and really cut loose sometimes. And the producer says, okay, boys, that was swell but now let's try to get this wrapped so we can all go home. I bet that happens all the time."

"In here," she said.

She shut the door behind us, sealing us into her dangerously plush office. I sat on the sofa. It reminded me of the Muzak, and they both reminded me, as before, of eggnog.

I craved eggnog.

Cynthia Jalter sat beside me on the sofa, turned in my direction, her legs crossed. I sat facing her desk, my hands in my lap. I realized she was staring at me and turned and looked. She smiled. She was radiantly beautiful. I felt a flush of grat.i.tude that she had taken me away from my apartment and brought me to this wonderful place. I was glad she wasn't blond.

"Philip."

"Cynthia Jalter."

"You don't have to say Jalter."

"I like to. Why did we come to your office, Cynthia Jalter?"

"You're in a destructive relations.h.i.+p. I'm helping you. I'm your therapist."

"This is therapy?"

"Yes."

"It's very nice."

"You like it?" She smiled.

"Yes. Do you have any eggnog?"

"Eggnog?"

"Yes. The music sounds like eggnog. Do you know where we can get some? It's almost Christmastime."

"Maybe after therapy we'll go for eggnog."

"Therapy. Oh, yes."

Cynthia Jalter took my shoulder and turned me toward her, then drew her hair back and leaned forward. Her features were arranged in a special shape, a shape I recognized. She put her face against mine. A kiss. The sticky part of her face found mine, and they oscillated together.

Cynthia Jalter leaned back and sighed.

"I've never had this kind of therapy before," I said. "I'm more accustomed to the talking kind."

"You want to talk?"

I nodded. "Talk about couples. Coupling. The right and wrong way."

She sighed. "Well, the wrong way is like you and Alice. Circ.u.mscribed, myopic, inflexible. You formed a vulnerable mutual world-sphere."

"What?"

"The sphere ruptured at the slightest pressure."

"Oh," I said, bewildered. "What's the right way?"

"I'm going to show you the right way," she said. She aligned our faces again, and we kissed. I helped. She slipped inside the shelter of my arm, which lay across the back of the couch. I put my hand on the nape of her neck, and wove my fingers into her long, smooth hair. It felt black. My hand was swallowed in it. Like an object swallowed by Lack. No, I thought, I shouldn't be doing that, she wants me to stay separate. Don't merge. It's better not to merge.

Something entered my mouth. The texture was extraordinary. Tongue. I tried to provide it a toothless, serene environment there, in my mouth. It seemed to be looking for something. Of course. My tongue. Tongue wants other tongue.

Reports came in from other fronts. My right hand was exploring a softness and pleasantness that lacked an important name. Muzak? Eggnog? Breast. I felt a nipple, like a warm pebble in my palm. Then the softness swirled, became less definite. And the tongue, when I checked, was missing from my mouth. The extra tongue.

"Philip," Cynthia Jalter breathed into my ear.

"Therapist," I breathed back, except it came out an unintelligible croak.

She slid off the couch and onto the carpet, quite smoothly, and without letting go of me. So I began by watching her go, detached at least intellectually, and ended on the carpet with her, painlessly. The couch and the carpet seemed somehow continuous, like they were meant for this.

"Philip," she said again.

"Cynthia," I whispered. "Have you noticed that I'm croaking like a frog?"

"I hadn't noticed."

"Also this isn't therapy, I'm sure of it."

"That's okay."

"Also I'm having some trouble identifying various parts of your body. Maybe when I come into contact with something new you could just call out the name aloud."

"Is there numbness in your extremities?"

"Should there be? I think this is more a numbness in the female-anatomy-naming part of my brain. Also I'm thinking about Alice a little, I have to admit. And croaking like a frog, can you hear that?"

"I see what you mean but it's nothing very important. You could talk less. You talk a lot."

"Okay, but I am thinking about Alice a little bit, like I said."

Cynthia Jalter sighed, and s.h.i.+fted so that my hip slid to rest on the carpet.

"If you want to go on being in love with Alice," she said, "this therapy will help you do it in a more self-reliant way. I'll identify the various parts of my body if you like, and I can also talk about the various phases of the brief affair we're sharing, so you'll develop both vocabularies at the same time. But while we're on the subject I do want to say I think you're wasting your time pining after a woman who stopped giving you what you need months ago. And you might be ignoring a very interesting alternative."

"Ah."

"Now kiss me."

She didn't wait, but kissed me. Our bodies slid together so that they aligned in several crucial places, all of which had names that I would probably remember, or not. It didn't matter. My body knew how to answer all the questions hers was posing, was busy answering them, in fact, despite my reservations. I was turned on, happy even, sandwiched there with Cynthia between carpet and Muzak.

Something happened to my p.e.n.i.s. Cynthia Jalter had hold of it, the end of it, and was kneading rhythmically, sending me signals. It was a message of some sort, on my private-access channel, my hot line, my Batphone. Maybe it was the secret of the universe. If the medium is the message, it was for sure. So I was about to learn the secret of the universe. I should be pleased.

I sat up.

"What's the matter?"

"Therapy is supposed to help you understand."

"Yes. Come back down here and I'll help you understand."

"I don't want to understand."

"You don't want to understand what, Philip?"

"My coupling with Alice. I just want it back. I can't stop wanting that."

Cynthia sighed. She tugged her twisted clothes back into place. "You don't want to make love to me."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Should we go out and find you some eggnog? This could be the start of a friends.h.i.+p that only gradually unfolds to reveal mutual desire."

"Maybe you should drive me home. I don't feel good."

It was true. I felt like a mummy, shrouded in carpet and Muzak. I needed fresh air.

Cynthia Jalter b.u.t.toned her s.h.i.+rt. Had I unb.u.t.toned it? Had she? Was it an advanced form of s.h.i.+rt that unb.u.t.toned itself?

She led me outside, and I gulped at the night air, as I had the marijuana fumes. I wanted to reverse the damage, clear my brain. Cynthia Jalter went to her car and warmed the engine. I got in beside her. My head throbbed. We drove in silence back to campus.

"Don't worry," said Cynthia Jalter as we pulled up outside the apartment. "I understand. You don't have to say a word. Forget this ever happened, if you like. Or change your mind, come find me. I want you to feel okay about this."

"Okay."

"You're making the worst mistake of your life. I resent you for being so blind. You'd better win Alice back, and it had better be wonderful, because after this anything less is inexcusable."

"That doesn't go with the other thing you just said," I said.

"I know. You can choose which of them you prefer. I'm comfortable either way."

"Do I have to say now?"

"No, take your time, let me know later."

"Okay. Good night, Cynthia."

"Good night, Philip."