When Fiona phoned about my first session with Elie, it was one of those afternoons whose cold is clean. Everything was fine and sharp, as if hewn by the hard sunlight—the trees, the tidy row houses, and the faces bobbing past me down the sidewalk. Between school, work, and everything else, my double life felt more like three or four, and I joked about needing a personal assistant. Fiona would often call if a favored client wanted to schedule an appointment on a day I wasn’t in, or if she booked a session for which I’d need to prepare beforehand (by drinking extra liquids, or wearing the same socks for a few days). Though I had only just left a class whose final paper was due that coming weekend, I agreed to come in at 9:00 p.m. and stay for what promised to be at least a three-hour session. “He asked for you specifically, Justine; have you seen him before?” “No, I just went in for a tip on Lena’s session the last time he was here.” “But you know what he’s into? Lots of nipple work.
