My psychiatrist crossed her legs tapping a silver pen against her notepad before responding: “Have you ever given any thought to the possibility your relationship with Baristan is a reverie born of the desire to punish your racist father?”
“Tsss,” I hissed, “I don’t care about my dad enough to let him influence my dating life.”
“But Rose,” she shifted slightly sideways in her seat keeping her shoulders squared at me, she knew she’d struck a nerve, “Let me ask the question from a different standpoint: What about thoughts to the possibility that *Baristan’s* motivation is racist prejudice, and it’s fueling an unhealthy sexual fetish for him with you?”
I shrugged. “Sounds like everyone’s screwed up.”
“I only ask because you told me it was a blond character in sexual comics that Barsitan compared you to when you both first met”—she flipped back her notes several pages reading intently—”And that he’s in fact nicknamed you after this character, *Carmen*.”
Jesus Christ already. “Yes,” I said, “I told him to stop calling me that and he has. Like weeks ago.”
“Does he still read them? The Carmen comics depicting sexual violence?”