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I WALKED INTO the office and sat in the chair. I had been referred to him by several trusted mentors, including my supervisor, as a possible training analyst. Although I was still working with my now-long-distance therapist, I was beginning to feel antsy to get started in my analysis. He is one of those rare analysts whom everyone seems to respect, across disciplinary and theoretical dividing lines. As I sat, anxious to begin our consult, he was diagonal from me, the couch beside him and across from me. I sat trying to look at him but found my gaze drawn to the couch. Of course, the couch: the mythical analytic object. It was exquisite, and I felt terror rolling around in my center. Spindly beautiful wooden legs, seemingly thin enough to be the heel of a stiletto. There was a lovely plush cushion on top, flat and modern. I could not imagine even sitting on it, much less lying on it. My thought: Could it hold me? Would it collapse under my weight? Would I be able to breathe lying flat on my back without a headrest? Would he shudder when I sat my weight onto it? What would he think when I had trouble rolling off of the low seat, trying to get my feet under me enough to stand back up at the end of a session?