One night when Constance and I were making love, I suddenly thought of that damned analyst. I’d told this man about our lovemaking to make him see how perfect and precious it was, told him that we would often raise the top sheet up and over our heads so we’d be in a world where there was no one else, a perfect world. His response to this intimate confession annoyed me. He said we were a pair of prime neurotics, and when we raised the sheet up and over our heads—our “tent,” he called it—we were reaching for a perfection that did not and could not exist, a forgetfulness of all our problems through physical love. “You simply can’t get rid of your problems that way,” he’d said with that soft smile (which I thought patronizing), “because it’s all over in a couple of minutes, isn’t it, and there you are, right back where you started, in the same situation. Nothing’s changed, except that you’re tired and sleepy.” I got mad at him. “Yes, we may be neurotic as all hell,” I said, “and we may even be sick, but that is precisely what gives our physical relationship”—I used the plainer word—“its charge. You call it foolish and frantic; I call it wonderful!” I said this to him and he smiled that soft, patient smile as if he’d heard everything I’d said a thousand times from other equally foolish neurotics. But that night in California when I remembered what he’d said, I pulled the top sheet back down, and opened our “tent.” It was she who pulled the sheet up over our heads again, and that is when she said, “I wish there were only two people in the world—you and me.”