I am going to a building that was a former residence (perhaps??) in New York. It’s a big apartment building. I recognize it. At the door are piles of snakes, live hissing dangerous snakes. We somehow get into an elevator that runs in a diagonal along the outside of the building. There is a snake in the elevator as well–it appears to be dead, is somewhat desiccated, having died in the act of swallowing whole some bird or clawed, clawing animal. But despite it’s dead appearance, I am afraid of it, afraid it is going to bite and poison me, so I cling to the front of the elevator by the buttons while some other girls walk in. We go in a diagonal up the side of the building, glass panels revealing the city below us. As we finally get out of the elevator, I turn back and see the girls picking apart the dead snake.

We go into a therapists’ office. The therapist is a man, cold, in charge of his space. No one I have ever seen before.

I am afraid for my son, that’s why we are here. The therapist says that in order to talk to me about these things–part of the therapy–is that he has sex with me. So I go onto the leather couch behind his desk and lie on my stomach. People are there, watching–I think Liz and Mike?–and I know everyone is sitting next to us, watching, believing that this is a terrible, terrible idea–what will my husband think?–but I don’t care. The therapist finishes. I ask him–was that really necessary? And he says no, it wasn’t–and it had nothing to do with the therapeutic process–he lied to me about that, but it was still all my fault because I had wanted it. And I am horrified and know that I’ve perhaps destroyed my marriage, betrayed my husband; and I protest, because I never would have let him had I not believed his lie–but at the same time, I know he’s at least partly right.

And then I leave. I don’t know where I go, but I ponder the irrevocableness of action.

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