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new life.
    She knew the therapist, Eve, from her Women Ethically For the Environment (WEFE) group that met monthly at various trophy houses on the Westside, and served organic vegetables paired with expensive imported alcohol. Eve’s style had impressed Ann, and the monthly WEFE meetings had made improvements in her life that made her feel nominally better, such as: she now recycled, ate organic and grass-fed, and wrote out checks (albeit for small amounts) to various international NGOs to make clothes and furniture out of recycled garbage.
    At Eve’s office, they sat marooned on a Balinese opium bed carved from sustainable teak.
    “Should I take off my shoes?” Ann asked, uncomfortable and unhappy. Through Eve’s eyes, Ann was aware that Richard appeared slump-backed and slope-shouldered, that his potbelly topped his belt like a muffin rising over its tin, or, in Richard’s case, a brioche. Eve’s husband, Guy, who attended black-tie environmental events with her, was a former B-list actor who now worked strictly as an activist, allowing him free time to spend every day at the gym maintaining his six-pack abs. He was on the correct side of open land, clean water, sustainable farming, and baby seals. The only thing that sustained Ann through her present mortification was that years ago, at an event, Guy had put his hand on her ass and made a pass, a klutzy move that she had deflected. Richard would never do that.
    “Shoes on, shoes off. Ann, do what makes you feel comfortable.”
    Which was impossible, because leaving the room was the only thing that would accomplish that. Ann dropped one pump, and then the other, with a loud clatter on the Saltillo tile floor. “Nice floors,” she said to cover the noise.
    “Eduardo is the best. I’ll give you his number,” Eve said. “He’s a wizard. We just came back from a design trip to an island in French Polynesia. We discovered exotic woods. The heat and the light. The place is pure sex.”
    “Did Guy like it?” Ann asked.
    “He couldn’t come. So let’s get to work. Now what I’d suggest is for you and Richard to lie side by side and close your eyes.”
    Ann, grateful for the privacy of closed lids, felt herself burning with shame. It drove her crazy how Eve repeated their names back to them, as if reading off index cards, as if they might forget who they were. Too late, Ann saw the conflict of interest in discussing one’s personal issues with someone one ate canapés with. Someone who took her floor man to the South Seas. She would have to quit the environmental group and find another cause. A waste because she didn’t believe in therapy—in fact, prided herself on being the problem solver for others—and this exposure made her feel doubly humiliated. Thank God for the small favor that Eve had revealed that Guy had cheated on her numerous times (this after the hand-on-the-tush incident), and had come to see her a year ago about a divorce that never materialized.
    Eve coughed and spoke in a soft voice. “Now, Ann and Richard, I want you two to picture where you want to be a year from now.”
    Ann moaned, her eyes still closed, poisoned by her own words used against her. This was the question she had posed to Eve the year before, her standard for divorce cases. Eve had stolen it. Apparently the answer for Eve ended up being staying with Guy, whom she claimed had reformed. The law had shown Ann that people rarely changed. At best, the behavior went inward, underground, where lust carved out a dark and dangerous hole in one’s heart.
    “See,” said Richard. “Always a negative, knee-jerk reaction.”
    “Could I have some water?” Ann asked.
    “Of course,” Eve answered. “Flat or sparkling?”
    After Ann downed the full glass in a few gulps, Eve continued.
    “I’ll have to use tough love with you two. I’m sending you on a trip alone together. Tell me the first thing that pops into your mind, Richard, for a romantic place.”
    “Romantic?”