I’ve decided to see a psychiatrist like you did, Rosa. I am so lonely, and I don’t know that I’ll ever find someone else like you. Or like we used to be. I know others must exist, or else we’d never have found those books we loved to read together before daring each other into the many things we did. But I don’t know where such people are. Maybe you’re right and we were perverse. Maybe I want you the way I want you because I’m sick. Or neurotic or crazy or whatever they call it. If that’s so, I’d like to get well.
