My shrink tells me I’m not in control, and need to be more honest but I think that’s a metaphor. I get high on caffeine before meeting her, the next time, and the whole thing is less than successful. I’ve got too much time to think, but at least in Vancouver, I can find coffee. The time after that, I ask her if she has a big ego. ‘How would you like me to answer that question?’ she says, flustered. There are lies under her fingernails, and those hands are clammy, shakey. Experience tells me that she’s not getting laid. Virility as poor personal hygiene, or so goes my theory; the juices aren’t flowing, the trap door sealed, an ancillary dusty seat. ‘Do you want to talk about sex?’ I ask, parting my legs. ‘How would you like me to answer that question?’ she says again, now leaning forward in her chair. I sense intrigue, despite the clinical guise. Faced with the offer, who can blame her? When reflecting on the drought of her own tepid life, these stories give fuel to her nighttime experiences.