78 / MARYA HORNBACHER
the books,” I said. He had big square black 1950s glasses that made him look a bit mean and excessively paternal. “Why?” he asked. I was at a loss. “Why not?” I said. He made a note. He wrote on lined yellow legal-size paper and used a black pen with a wide tip. I craned my neck to see what he was writing. He moved the pad away. There were perhaps eight feet between us, and I needed glasses but hadn't told anyone. His writing was very small, very square, block printing, all caps. I could tell the shape from where I sat but not what he was writing. He wrote, I would later note, on only one side of the paper, flipping each used page upward with a slightly over-dramatic flourish and beginning again at a mad pace. I would remark that he was wasting paper. He would peer at me and make a note. To my left was a black leather couch. I said, half-joking, “Will I have to lie on the couch?” He looked at me, furry gray eyebrows arched. “Do you want to?” he asked. I was mortified. “No,” I said. “Why would I want to lie on the couch?” He peered. “I don't know,” he said. “Why would you want to lie on the couch?” “I DON't,” I said, glaring at him. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I looked at the parking lot. “Do you want to leave?” he asked. “Excuse me?” “Do you want to leave?” “I don't really care,” I said, which was true. We sat. He made notes. “What are .you writing?” I asked. “Notes.” “Thank you,” I said, like a mouthy little rat. “That's very helpful. Notes on what?” “Observations.” “Observations of me?” He stopped writing and looked at me. “Is it important to you, how people observe you?”