 What do you like so much about it, he says, though he knows it is not about the sofa as it was not about the dog. He's never heard of Joan Didion when I tell him she kept her dead husband's shirts in her closet in case he needed them again. The exposure therapist makes me unwrite a painting of a naked woman, soft and asleep. For 40 minutes, I look at the thing, crooked, and then we say goodbye.