Transference

Stephanie had been subdued all evening, barely speaking during their meal, absently twisting the napkin in her lap.

Peter swallowed his wine very slowly.

"Is it something to do with work?

"Do you really want to know?

He nodded. It wasn't easy living with a therapist.

"I have a client. Young. Bi-sexual. Manic-Depressive. His mother died just after he left home. Very, very intelligent. Very quick.

Peter carefully placed a square of meat into his mouth.

"He's unpredictable, funny. Flirts with me. I listen to him, put him in his place gently. He blushes, embarrassed and angry. A blush dusts his neck.

"So, does he give you problems?

"No, he doesn't. He's attentive, diligent, respectful. He takes control of his condition, fully enters each session.

Peter continued chewing methodically.

"So¦

"So, I look at him, at his eyes and his lips and I want to fuck him. I want to stay up with him for days and hold him in my arms and kiss his tears away. I want to take him to my breast and nurse him.

Peter sipped his wine. "Goes with the territory?

"Yes.

Peter chewed.

Suddenly relaxing, Stephanie remembered that Peter needed so little from her.