"Tell me what you're doing, but don't tell me why."

            Henry was agog, an unusual expression on his palette of emotion which ranged from stoic, to rather horny but mostly stoic. He was staring at Anais, who had inverted herself on their delicate antique desk chair, placing her knees on the rim of her seat, and her hands groped for balance along the Rococo carved rods that extended up the back. When she contorted herself into momentary equilibrium, she thrust her hips in toward the chair, but only succeeded in throwing herself off balance again. She returned Henry's gaze with compromised dignity.

            "I'm pretending that I'm a man trying to have sex with his secretary on the swivel chair at the reception desk," Anais explained.

            "That's not a swivel chair."

            "I'm trying to pretend it's a swivel chair."

            "Huh. Its not working for you is it."

            Anais slunk into a seated position, exhausted and defeated. "Hey Antonin, I wasn't actually having sex with anyone, so you can stop staring at the ground."

            "Oh, hey Anais." Antoine now felt at liberty to step the rest of his way into the room, and quickly tossed himself upon the couch. He knew only two states of composure: maniacally high-strung or silently relaxed. He moved between the two states quite liberally.

            "Listen Anais," demanded Henry, hollering from the kitchenette where they could hear the music of liquor bottles clinking. "You can't do it like that, you're going to tip over.  It's the same principles as with yoga classes. You've got to work from a firm foundation. So you, ‘the guy,' have to have both feet planted on the floor, and the other thing is you'd better line the back of the chair up against a wall. At least to start."

            "Maybe you should write the damn story. This is driving me crazy!"

            "Yeah, well, I don't want you to break any furniture if nobody's going to have an orgasm."

            "You know you could also get a job..."

            "What have you got so far?" asked Henry, stealing her laptop and plopping down on the couch.

            "No! I don't want you to read it!"

            Henry ignored her and continued reading.

            "You know Henry, I bought cups so you no longer have to mix your drinks in old glass jars."

            Henry's eyes didn't flinch from the page. "You don't understand men, Anais. I'm a man, so that's why I drink from a jar."

            "It's an apple sauce jar, Henry. It once had apple sauce in it. Apple sauce is the closest adult food there is to baby food."

            Henry extended an index finger between himself and Anais, as his eyes glided down the page. "So Anais, have you actually ever engaged in sexual intercourse before? This is the worst erotica I've ever read in my life."

            "That must be pretty bad," interjected Antonin.

            "Well, I've never had sex in a swivel chair before."

            "Yes, that was obvious to everyone when we walked in."

            "Quiet Henry, I didn't ask for your opinions yet, hey, Antonin what's going on with you?"

            Antonin sat up straighter on the couch. "Nothing. I'm seeing a new psychologist."

            "What happened with the last one? You never even mentioned that things were going badly."

            "Well, its complicated, you know, that's the way psychology is. You can't just lay yourself on the operating table and expect any old bean to understand you..."

            "Smashed bananas are the closest adult food to baby food," Henry interrupted.

            "We aren't talking about you anymore Henry, we're talking about Antonin, now."

            Antonin's eyes shifted between the two of them, testing the waters to see if they were really finished bickering. Tentatively, he continued, "Yeah, so I went in for my initial consultation with this new guy..."     

            Anais looked back at Henry. "Smashed bananas aren't adult food, Henry. Do you actually eat smashed bananas?"

            "I do whatever I want Anais. I do a lot of things with smashed bananas."

            She decided not to listen to him anymore. "So Antonin, what time's your appointment done.  Do you want to meet for a beer afterward?"

            "Sometimes its hard to tell how long these things will go. Especially in the beginning. Its hard to say..."

            "Well, what time does it start?"

            "Its kind of vague, we decided to leave it open."

            "Um, okay, I'll meet you at five and read a book?"

            "Sounds good. It's at that place where Henry went to AA meetings when he was trying to meet girls."

            "That was a good time," recalled Henry.

            "Alright, I'm going because I'm late."

~ * ~

            Lila hurried down the hallway in her littlest towel when all of a sudden she realized she'd locked herself out of her dorm room! Luckily, Rodney, the college security guard was there. He found her dripping wet body desperate for his services.

"Oh Mr. Security Man!" squealed Lila, jumping up and down, "I'm so happy to see you! I'm locked out and I can't get my towel off, can you help me?"

~ * ~

            Antonin was not late for his appointment. He loitered in the waiting room, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist who asked him, repeatedly, whether he was on the schedule, and who he was there to see. However, as soon as the last patient emerged from Dr. Rank's office, he scuttled over to the door and slammed it be hind him.

            "I've brought something for my file," said Antonin holding the door closed with his hands and his back. "It's a draft of my play. I think it might prove useful in your analysis."

            Dr. Rank turned in his chair, surprised to see this new client. "Antonin, I haven't opened a file for you yet. As a matter of fact, I'm just not sure this is a good fit."

            "Well, actually, I've done some more of my own an analysis; I just want to go over it with you, and then you can share your feedback. Your feedback is very important to me."

            The Doctor's brow furrowed into an expression which had already become familiar to Antonin, but he chose not to interpret just yet. He positioned himself on the couch, eager to contribute his findings.

            "Remind me, did we in fact schedule another appointment?"

            "We said we would play it by ear, but saw the other guy leave so I assumed you must be free."

            "That's not the way..."

            Antonin opened his folder, "So, the play, as it stands, has only five characters. But as I was rereading all of these characters are ME. As in, I'm all the characters. So when I was leaving the room, I was thinking that I was Lorenzo, Lorenzo is the main character. And then later that same day, I started to feel like I was Ophelia. Like I actually was Cordelia, Lorenzo's girlfriend in my play, which is an archetypal reference to Hamlet..."

            "Cordelia is a reference to King Leer, not Hamlet."

            "So the thing is I think I might have multiple personalities, as in schizophrenia."

            "Antonin, multiple personality disorder is an entirely different phenomenon than schizophrenia."

            "Are you sure, I'm pretty sure that has to do with schizophrenics."

            "Yes, I'm sure," answered Dr. Rank.

            "I feel like you're not really listening. Anyway, my point is that maybe we should keep this in my file. For posterity."

            "We've already discussed this. I don't feel it would be appropriate to open a file for you at this time."

            Paroxysms passed up his spine, through his shoulders and neck. "Listen, do you need a file folder, because I already brought a file folder."

            "I'm not saying you don't have serious psychological issues, I just don't think you have schizophrenia."

            "What I hear you saying is that I could have schizophrenia, but you're just not sure though."

            "Antonin, I'm afraid I'm going to have to end this session here." Dr. Rank rose to escort his patient out, despite rapid and stuttering protests. As he opened the door, his fell on Anais. She stood.

            "Oh, hello Antonin," she said, closing her book while gazing directly at the doctor.

            "Hey Anais, we just..."

            "Perhaps I should hold onto this," said Dr. Rank, retrieving the file folder from Antonin's shaky grip.

            "Sure," said Antonin, excitedly, "I think it will..."

            "Hello," said Dr. Rank, extending his other hand toward Anais, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

            "No, we haven't. Hello, hi." Her voice fluttered as she shook his hand.

            "Guten tag."     

~ * ~

"Hello there Sir, I brought your files, is there anything else I can do?"

            Not bothering to answer, Rodney slid his hand up Lila's skirt, caressing the ripe round peaches of her ass. Muffling her delight, she placed her hand on the swivel chair to steady herself. Rodney thrust Lila into a seated position using his pelvis. The chair was soft and flexible, yet supportive, everything he wanted in a woman, and more...

~ * ~

            "What do you think?" She slapped her rumpled first draft onto damp and sticky surface of the bar. "Maybe I'm using too many metaphors when I should be using similes, and using similes when I should be using metaphors..."

            "I don't know, Anais, I've never had sex in a swivel chair either."

            "What are you staring at? I'm trying to have a serious conversation." Following the direction of his gaze, Anais discovered the same group of winos and lowlifes that she always saw at the ‘Blue Albino.'

            "I think I'm in love, Anais."

            Anais scrutinized the area more carefully. Nothing seemed appealing, leaving only one scantily clad possibility for Antonin's affections. "Who, you mean zebra pants over there?"

            "Don't say zebra pants."

            "What?  I didn't call anybody zebra pants who wasn't intentionally wearing zebra pants, so my conscience is clear."

            "Stop saying zebra pants!"

            "Wow, you must really like her." Anais squinted her eyes to take a second look at the doe-eyed, bleach-blond, Aqua Net commercial sitting just down the bar.

            "I think I should try to talk to her."

            "I think you should definitely not try to talk to her." She said, returning her attention to her glass of Pilsner.

            "Whatever Anais, I'm going over there."

            "Whatever," Anais downed her pint, and winked at the bartender for a refill.

            Antonin abandon his stool to approach the object of his desire. A buxom bar fly if ever there was one. She did not seem to notice him, but that wasn't a deterrent.

            Upon arrival, Antonin leaned against a bar stool, which tipped over, so he steadied himself against the bar. "Um, hi, can I meet you?"

            "What?" The wide diameter of her eyes made amplified all of her responses.

            "Nevermind," he recovered. "You know, this is one of my favorite bars, do you like this bar?"

            The young woman stared at Antonin with pained sincerity. Obviously she pitied his excruciating awkwardness, but she was flummoxed as to the appropriate response.

            Her silence signaled him to continue. "So yeah, I was with my psychoanalyst today, and I just don't know if it's working out real well. It's just that I've been through about seven psychoanalysts in the last few months, because I can't seem to meet the right one. Sometimes I think maybe that's the way it is with girls too, except for that I don't get to go out with girls that much because I'm kind of shy."

            Now her faintly watering eyes pleaded with him to stop. He recognized this expression.

            "Okay then," said Antonin, bucking himself up. "Well if you decide that you want to have a conversation about something, I'm going to go back over there and sit down."

            Anais wrapped up her conversation with the bartender when she noticed Antonin returning. "How'd it go?"

            "Same, same," Antonin replied.

            "Did you talk about your psychoanalyst again?"

            "Uh-huh."

            Gently, she rubbed his back. "It's weird because, you know what will happen. I've told you, everybody's told you, and you always end up with the same results."

            "I know, but I get flustered, and then I think, maybe it will work this time. Maybe this will be the girl that understands me."

            Anais glanced back at the jungle-boogie Barbie doll with the fondness for animal prints. "You know, we're going to have to see that girl every time we come here, now. She's always there."

            "I know."

            "Anyway," Anais continued, voice picking up speed, "At least your psychologist is totally hot, and I think you should give him another chance."

            "What?"

            "What? I'm just saying."

            He rested his elbows against the bar and mounted his head in his hands.

            "What?"

            "Anais, don't try to sleep with my psychologist, its like the only thing I've got going right now."

            "Nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves, nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves." A series of dramatic gestures proved that her hands were, indeed, empty, and she was not, in fact, wearing any sleeves.

            Antonin did not raise his head from his hands.

            Anais returned her attention to her beer.

            "Besides, he's not my psychologist," she said.