Three

1

“I hate to say this, but psychoanalysis could use better branding. Going to therapy once a week is well accepted now. It’s chic even. But going to therapy three times a week, that still feels like a taboo.” She carefully pauses after she says “taboo.” I affirm that I am not wounded by chuckling and turning my attention to an amusing part of her statement, “chic.” Relieved, she immediately imitates the so-called chic girls who are casually engaged in psychotherapy once a week. She flips her hair a little while looking poised and tad arrogant and states, “I love therapy, I’m doing the work.” She rolls her eyes, and I can’t help but laugh. She is adorable when she glows green with envy, a lovely hunger she is too ashamed to nurture. I must ask, “if doing the work once a week is chic, what is psychoanalysis?” She winces her nose as she says, “gawdy.” I ask, “Gawdy … what about it, I’m hearing, too much? Too needy? Too messy?” She nods, and sums it up, “it’s tacky.” I nod, “It’s that loser feeling.”

2

On Sunday night, she makes a big feast. Her white marble table is already covered with colorful food full of warm and vibrant fragrance. I stand on the edge of her tiny kitchen to witness her intense focus. Her slender arms and sharp fingertips enchant me as they move rhythmically around the fire, water, and steam. She notices me and disrupts my awe, “don’t just stand there, start moving.” I set the table while calling my brother and father. They don’t move until she finally yells, “Do I have to yell?!”

Everything tastes perfect. I notice that each bite has at least three flavors. I grab another meatball, and she chuckles while cringing, “Ugh, she eats more than her brother.” I take my last bite as I stare at my brother’s plate with leftovers. Dinner is over. I do not feel full.

3

She knows I am going to write about us and our feelings about her fantasy of making psychoanalysis more “chic.” She sounds giddy and bright when she says, “I’m so curious about your writing,” and asks