"But why not?" he asked.
"You'll find out all about me," she said. "I'll have no secrets left."
"But you shouldn't want to have any secrets from your psychoanalyst. I can't help you then."
"Perhaps," she agreed. "But I want to have secrets from you," she said softly, and looked up quietly from her fingers, staring directly into his eyes, and her lips and her eyes underwent that mysterious synchronization once again. "I don't want you to know me like a book, with everything spelled out in black and white, but like a portrait, with hidden shades and nuances.... I want you to know me gradually, slowly...."
"Mimi," he said, and paused. He pushed back from his desk, swiveled completely around and back to his original position, cracked two knuckles, tried to force some saliva into a suddenly dry mouth, and started to speak again. "Mimi, it's not unusual for a patient to develop a feeling of affection for her psychoanalyst. In fact, it's the usual—"
"It's not like that with us, though, is it?" she asked, more quietly, more softly and deeply, than before.
After a long pause he said, "No. No, it's not."
And so they sat there while the daylight faded outside them and the twilight crawled up sixty-three floors to encircle their window and continue unhesitatingly upward.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.