books aren’t even in height order. I can see one shoe poking out from under that chair. That’s off-putting.’
‘Try and cut off from that. What do you want to talk about today, if not the incident?’
‘Where’s the other shoe?’
‘What do you want to talk about today?’
‘My life is too spotless. I want romance!’
‘Do you feel we may have covered that already?’
‘No.’
‘We have gone over it in most of your sessions.’
‘It’s not resolved. In my head.’
‘Which parts?’
‘All of it. I’m still having the daydream.’
‘Which is perfectly healthy. Daydreams aren’t necessarily harmful. They can simply be a manifestation of our hopes, harmless wish fulfilment. It is only when we find them disturbing that –’
‘Maybe if I told you again?’
‘Is it the same one as before?’
‘No, it’s different.’
‘Has Adrian made a reappearance?’
He sees me bristle like some old hen at the sound of the name.
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘I’m just trying to work out how is it different, Sunny.’
‘Let me just tell you. I’m having an argument with my tall, handsome husband – who doesn’t exist – and we are bickering about unimportant things, but he can’t be mad at me for long. It’s a fight about who will drive to the dinner party we are going to. He is wearing a chunky-knit sweater. It doesn’t descend into any real kind of nastiness. It’s not one of those kinds of arguments, the way that people can be to each other, spitting out unforgivable venomous spite … You know. We don’t do that. Because my husband – my imaginary husband – loves me too much, and I him. I know he will never leave me, with a coward’s note about his lust for his secretary. And he knows that I will never get drunk and perform a sexual indiscretion on his brother –he has a younger brother, reckless and attractive, possibly bisexual, always off trekking in the Himalayas, or skydiving. The point is this: we just can’t be unfaithful to each other, in my mind, because unfaithful is for other people with weak relationships, common relationships, relationships that stream past me daily. We don’t score points, I don’t demean his manhood – he is average in length but has great girth – and he doesn’t take food out of my hands for my waistline’s good. We don’t want to trade up or trade down or trade each other in. We are in love.’
‘I see. How exactly is that different to the previous daydream?’
‘We never fought about who would drive before. Because in my daydream I hadn’t passed my test. But I passed it last week in my dream. Really, I’ve been driving for years.’
‘Congratulations anyway.’
‘Thank you. Parallel parked.’
‘Why do you think you still want to talk about this? Why do you think this daydream is in any way unhealthy?’
‘Because I don’t think I understand love! And, seriously, it’s becoming more pressing! I think I have a picture of it in my head that isn’t real, and that is going to stop me ever actually falling in love, or even recognising it! I thought I was in love with Adrian, and that was five years of my life … but now …’
‘Do you think that you might know love when you find it, and that it will replace the daydreams?’
‘No! I think that while my perception of love stays the same I won’t be able to see it in reality. I think I am emotionally unhealthy in that respect.’
‘And what would you say your perception of love is?’
‘Love is the thing that keeps you safe at night. Love doesn’t hurt.’
My therapist adjusts his glasses. He looks as if he is inhis late fifties, but he is sixty-two, with dark brown hair smeared in grey. He wears a jumper and jeans. The jeans are old man jeans – they don’t really fit, in any acceptable way. His jumper is navy and cream and claret, diagonals and squares and lines. It doesn’t really fit either. His clothes just sit on him. He doesn’t write things down often,
‘Try and cut off from that. What do you want to talk about today, if not the incident?’
‘Where’s the other shoe?’
‘What do you want to talk about today?’
‘My life is too spotless. I want romance!’
‘Do you feel we may have covered that already?’
‘No.’
‘We have gone over it in most of your sessions.’
‘It’s not resolved. In my head.’
‘Which parts?’
‘All of it. I’m still having the daydream.’
‘Which is perfectly healthy. Daydreams aren’t necessarily harmful. They can simply be a manifestation of our hopes, harmless wish fulfilment. It is only when we find them disturbing that –’
‘Maybe if I told you again?’
‘Is it the same one as before?’
‘No, it’s different.’
‘Has Adrian made a reappearance?’
He sees me bristle like some old hen at the sound of the name.
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘I’m just trying to work out how is it different, Sunny.’
‘Let me just tell you. I’m having an argument with my tall, handsome husband – who doesn’t exist – and we are bickering about unimportant things, but he can’t be mad at me for long. It’s a fight about who will drive to the dinner party we are going to. He is wearing a chunky-knit sweater. It doesn’t descend into any real kind of nastiness. It’s not one of those kinds of arguments, the way that people can be to each other, spitting out unforgivable venomous spite … You know. We don’t do that. Because my husband – my imaginary husband – loves me too much, and I him. I know he will never leave me, with a coward’s note about his lust for his secretary. And he knows that I will never get drunk and perform a sexual indiscretion on his brother –he has a younger brother, reckless and attractive, possibly bisexual, always off trekking in the Himalayas, or skydiving. The point is this: we just can’t be unfaithful to each other, in my mind, because unfaithful is for other people with weak relationships, common relationships, relationships that stream past me daily. We don’t score points, I don’t demean his manhood – he is average in length but has great girth – and he doesn’t take food out of my hands for my waistline’s good. We don’t want to trade up or trade down or trade each other in. We are in love.’
‘I see. How exactly is that different to the previous daydream?’
‘We never fought about who would drive before. Because in my daydream I hadn’t passed my test. But I passed it last week in my dream. Really, I’ve been driving for years.’
‘Congratulations anyway.’
‘Thank you. Parallel parked.’
‘Why do you think you still want to talk about this? Why do you think this daydream is in any way unhealthy?’
‘Because I don’t think I understand love! And, seriously, it’s becoming more pressing! I think I have a picture of it in my head that isn’t real, and that is going to stop me ever actually falling in love, or even recognising it! I thought I was in love with Adrian, and that was five years of my life … but now …’
‘Do you think that you might know love when you find it, and that it will replace the daydreams?’
‘No! I think that while my perception of love stays the same I won’t be able to see it in reality. I think I am emotionally unhealthy in that respect.’
‘And what would you say your perception of love is?’
‘Love is the thing that keeps you safe at night. Love doesn’t hurt.’
My therapist adjusts his glasses. He looks as if he is inhis late fifties, but he is sixty-two, with dark brown hair smeared in grey. He wears a jumper and jeans. The jeans are old man jeans – they don’t really fit, in any acceptable way. His jumper is navy and cream and claret, diagonals and squares and lines. It doesn’t really fit either. His clothes just sit on him. He doesn’t write things down often,
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