You should read them. You’re actually kind of in some of them.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said quietly, and then at last he pulled out his phone and used an app to start the movie.
I pretended to watch while settling all the way into the spiral.
I kept thinking about that Pettibon painting, with its multicolored whirlpool, pulling your eye into the center of it.
I tried to breathe in the Dr. Singh–sanctioned way without making it too obvious,
but within a few minutes I was sweating in earnest, and he definitely noticed, because he’d seen this movie a hundred times,
so really he was only watching it to watch me watch it, and I could feel his glances over at me,
and even though I had my jacket zipped, he obviously had noticed the mad, wet mustache on my sopping upper lip.
I could feel the tension in the air, and I knew he was trying to figure out how to make me happy again.
His brain was spinning right alongside mine. I couldn’t make myself happy, but I could make people around me miserable.
When the movie ended, I told him I was tired, because that seemed the adjective most likely to get me where I needed to be—alone and in my bed.
Davis drove me home, walked me to the door, and kissed me chastely on my sweaty lips.
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