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The White Room

DR. KOONING TOOK off her glasses, and for her it was a gesture of triumph. "So basically you wanted to sleep with Elvis Presley?"

Gibson shook his head wearily. "I never even met Elvis."

"But in your dreams you wanted him."

"I wanted to be him, I wanted to be Elvis Presley. That's a very different thing. You shrinks have sex on the brain."

Her gaze was level. "If it seems that way, it's probably just a reflection of the patients we treat."

Gibson glared. "I've really had enough of this shit."

"You seem unusually hostile today."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"Maybe that's because I don't think you understand the motivations of an artist."

"An artist?"

Gibson lost his temper. "Yes, a fucking artist."

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't do it, no matter how much Kooning tried to provoke him, but he could feel his control slipping away.

Kooning smiled her irritating smile."But you're not an artist, are you, Joe? You're only an artist in your fantasy. I think we've already established that."

Gibson silently cursed himself. He had run slap into the essential Catch-22 of his situation. He couldn't take the high ground on the strength of what he'd been because, as far as Kooning was concerned, he had never been anything.

She was leaning forward in her chair. "I think we should talk about this, don't you, Joe?"


Chapter Eight | Necrom | Chapter Nine