Big Swiss(81)

“Maybe I need psychologie,” Greta said.


FEW:?I’ve never felt such a range of conflicting emotions. On any given day we spend together, I feel lust, disgust, pity, joy, gratitude, and despair.

OM:?In that order?

FEW:?All at once. The highs and lows are extreme. It feels very love/hate.

OM:?I don’t believe in love/hate relationships. If it feels love/hate, then it’s not love. It’s probably not hate, either.

FEW:?What is it?

OM:?Fear.

FEW:?I’m not afraid of her.

OM:?You fear engulfment. She fears abandonment. It’s not love/hate so much as push/pull, and it’s very hard to stop once the cycle starts.

FEW:?She seemed embarrassed about the Airbnb thing, but I think part of her found it amusing. She must be ashamed of herself, though, because she asked me never to tell a soul.

OM:?Has she done anything else that’s made you uncomfortable?

FEW:?Too many things to mention. She’s made huge displays, both in public and private. We had sex in her room last week while her housemate was running errands. At first it was very rushed and exciting. Then we got rough with each other. Afterward, she was tender, almost tearful.

OM:?How rough?

FEW:?We wrestled, and she left bruises on my wrists and thighs. I think she likes to leave marks, so that I’m forced to think about her when she’s not around.

OM:?Would you not think about her otherwise?

FEW:?I would and do. Constantly.

OM:?How do you explain the bruises to Luke?

FEW:?I haven’t seen Luke in a few days. He’s at some jiu-jitsu conference. Anyway, while we were grappling, she knocked a glass off the bedside table. It shattered, and she stepped on a sliver. It was nothing, a small cut. Well, now there’s a hole in her foot, because she’s convinced a piece of glass is trapped under the skin, and she keeps cutting her foot open so that the glass can “find its way out.” But there’s no glass!



“Oh, but there is,” Greta said, flexing her foot. “I can feel it.”


FEW:?I’ve been getting a weird feeling lately that she’s not who she says she is.



“Oh boy,” Greta said. “Here we go.”


OM:?How do you mean?

FEW:?Her reactions often don’t match what I’m saying. She either underreacts or overreacts, and there’s very little in between. When I’ve told her things about myself, surprising and disturbing things, she acts like she’s already heard them. And two people have called her by a completely different name.



“End of recording,” Greta said.


OM: ?What name?

FEW:?Greta.



Greta imagined Om’s eyes popping out of his head and rolling around on the floor.


FEW:?You know her, obviously. I can tell by your face.



Om did some throat-clearing. With any luck, he would spontaneously chant the word “Har” for twenty minutes, and Big Swiss would be forced to leave.


FEW:?Is she a client of yours?



“Har, har, har,” Greta said.


OM:?I can’t answer that.

FEW:?Who’s your transcriber?

OM:?It’s a service.

FEW:?It’s done by people, though, correct? Not a robot like you first told me?

OM:?Well, yes.

FEW:?I only ask because on the last page of the transcript you gave me, it says, “Transcribed by” and the name is crossed out. Actually, it looks violently scribbled out. So, I’m assuming it’s a person who lives around here, and I can see by your face that I’m right.

OM:?Look, this person signed a confidentiality agreement, which goes both ways. It would be unethical for me to give you this person’s name. I won’t do it.

FEW:?You’re in deep shit with me. Very deep. Do you hear me?



“I’m sorry!” Greta said.


FEW:?Are you listening?



“Yes,” Greta said.


FEW:?What else have you lied about? Everything?



“No,” Greta said miserably. “Just my name.”


OM:?You’re not talking to me, I hope. Are you?

FEW:?Her. Greta.

OM:?Don’t talk to her. Talk to me, please.

FEW:?You better come clean with me. Otherwise, this is over. I’ll end it and walk away, and you’ll wish you never had to see me again, but you will, over and over and over, because we live in a fishbowl, remember? I’ll tell everyone I know about this. Everyone. Is that what you want?



“No!” Greta said.


OM:?Please don’t—

FEW:?Are you trying to get me to leave you?



Greta didn’t answer.


FEW:?It’s occurring to me now that she wants me to abandon her.

OM:?[PAUSE] Are you talking to me?

FEW:?Now I’m wondering if her mother—

OM:?I’m going to stop—

[END OF RECORDING]



SINCE SHE’D ALWAYS IMAGINED Om’s office as resembling a private yoga studio, with Om himself bouncing around on a yoga ball, she was startled to find herself surrounded by carefully arranged antiques in what looked like an eighteenth-century boudoir. The walls had French-inspired panels painted a chalky arsenic green. Suspended from the high ceiling was an enormous gilt-wood chandelier. There was a working fireplace, along with a Louis XVI marble mantel. The oak floors were lacquered a weird magenta. The furniture: fringed slipper chairs, octagonal coffee table, curved couch, cream canopy bed dressed in blue-and-white chinoiserie.