Transference

Couch and footstool with bone carvings and glass inlays Roman, 1st–2nd century CE, the met site

I was beginning to grasp a sense of community around the two-month mark of living in my new

space. Something about the freezing over of November, caught in a dyad with a sun that sets

before supper, gave way to a communal longing for human interaction. I found my community in

the form of my local coffee shop, as many in the city do. My desire for connection turns me into

a caffeine addict, as I make my pilgrimage from my apartment to the shop every morning,

remaining there till the sun sets, sometimes even longer. The shop emulates a sense of warmth

which I need badly, with its various orange-tinted lamps and cozy furniture resembling that of a

Victorian home. A womb of tranquility and ease.

The truth is I am isolated by my work-from-home job and desperately homesick for a place far

away, and sitting in the same floral cushioned chair in the corner by the window amongst the

orange glow of the lamps, watching the outside world pass by whilst drowning myself in caffeine

has become my solace.

It isn’t the coffee itself which acts as a salve to my melancholy, but one man who frequents the

shop in particular. I wait each day in anticipation for his arrival and sulk upon his departure,

chastising myself for my lack of bravery to introduce myself.

He is tall, of course, with dark curly hair and glasses, dressed always in a button-up and khakis

with a black trench coat and amber scarf, his armor against the November wind. There is a

kindness which permeates his aura. I have created a version of him in my head, a kind of gentle

rescuer, the kind of delusions born from loneliness. He arrives at the shop consistently at ten

every morning and orders a cappuccino and sits at the desk across from me and types away at his

computer till noon and then departs.

Although today something is different...

As I sit here upon my floral throne typing away, I notice he has looked at me not once, but twice,

oh! Thrice, as he is looking at me right this instance only to shyly turn away. My heart is doing

somersaults within my chest, rising and sinking with each passing glance.

Something is arising in me—what they call courage, I believe, or better yet, divine intervention. I

am beginning my approach.

“Hello,” I muster meekly.

“Hello there.” He smiles at me with a sense of warmth.

“I wanted to finally introduce myself, Margot.” Nervously, I extend my hand; he returns the

gesture, swallowing it within his.

“Damion, it’s a pleasure. I've noticed you are always working at the same spot. What do you do

for a living?”

“Marketing. It's one of those bullshit work-from-home jobs; that's why I'm always here. You?”

“I’m a psychoanalyst.”

“Like Freud?” I respond stupidly.

“Not quite, a more modern variant.”

There’s a pause. I’m not quite sure what to say, yet I am impressed. Learning of his profession,

my initial attraction grows deeper. He intervenes finally, rescuing us both from the awkward

intermission.

“I hope I’m not overstepping here, but would you like to grab dinner with me sometime?”

My heart is bursting now — divine intervention, yes, I was right.

“I would love that.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a business card with an illustration of a couch on

the front of it, and his name and details on the back. Dr. Damion Wright, Psychoanalyst, it reads.

“Here’s my contact information. Oh! And before I forget, what’s your phone number?”

I put my number in his phone. Pathetically, I notice my hands are shaking. He makes me nervous

— but the good kind of nervous, the butterflies-dancing-in-your-stomach nervous.

“Dinner tomorrow evening? Does that sound good? I'll send you a spot.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I’ll see you then, Margot.”

He is smiling still, and on account of my loneliness, which fuels my insecurity, I can’t quite

understand why he seems so smitten.

I return to the floral chair, watching him pack up his things to leave. It is noon now, after all.

He waves to me as he leaves; the barista smiles at me, having picked up on what just transpired.

I sink into the chair, my loneliness vanishing into the orange air.

______________________________________________________________________________

The sun makes a rare appearance, illuminating through the cracks of my blinds like a

kaleidoscope, heralding to me that it is tomorrow. Tomorrow, the day the man from the coffee

shop becomes real, not just a figment of my imagination.

Instinctively, the first thing I do is reach over for my phone. Immediately, I am pleased to see he

has already texted.

“Good morning, Margot. Meet at Raul’s 7pm?” it reads.

“Yes :)” I responded. He hearts my message a second after I sent it. A positive sign of things to

come, I think.

I won’t go to the coffee shop today. In fact, I call out of work, sending along a half-assed excuse

to my boss. I let the daylight hours pass, hallucinating amongst the algorithms of my phone

screen to pass the time.

At 5:30 I dress myself in black stockings and a matching black dress. Sitting before my vanity

mirror, I place red lipstick upon my lips. Suddenly, the face before me merges into that of a

clown. I feel stupid, desperate almost.

“I am a clown, I am a clown, I am a clown.” I repeat in unison with the clown in the mirror until

a semblance of reality takes hold of me.

“I will not let you ruin this opportunity for me,” I say to him, and his painted red lips and powder

white face melt back into the vision of a beautiful young woman.

I break from the mirror before it can trap me again and grab my coat, making my way out into

the frigid air, delusion of grandeur propelling me towards an awaiting snare.

______________________________________________________________________________

I enter into the dimly lit restaurant with its enchanting ambiance. A jazz band plays in the corner,

the tables are lined with white cloth, and the walls are filled with antique paintings of naked

women. I see Damion already sitting handsomely at the table, watching as the waiter pours two

glasses of white wine before him.

“Madamoiselle, may I take your coat?” a French accent appears from behind me. I hand over my

coat to the hostess, trying to conceal my nerves. I take a breath and make my way towards

Damion. He watches my every move as I walk over to him, not with a smile, but with that look

of hunger and desperation I’ve come so used to recognizing in the eyes of men.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“No, not at all. I’m sorry, I assumed you drink. I ordered us a bottle of their best white wine, if

you don’t mind.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I drink.” I lift the glass to my lips, taking a large sip, alcohol the ol’ reliable in

shattering nerves. Damion seems amused by this, adjusting his glasses as if to get a better look at

me.

“So, tell me, Margot, what brings you to the city?”

“Work, although I hate my job. I miss home, but” I catch myself, about to overshare.

“No, please go on. I want to know everything I can about this mysterious girl from the coffee

shop,” he replies, interjecting in a flirtatious manner.

“I guess besides work, I moved here wanting a blank slate, but I didn’t realize the loneliness that

would entail.”

“A blank slate can be a liberating thing, despite the loneliness, no?”

“Oh, you’re good.” I laugh, staring into my wine glass.

“At what?”

“Analyzing.”

We both laugh. The waiter comes by, refilling our glasses, and we order the steak frites to share.

He shares with me the details of his upbringing, schooling, and career, yet the conversation

continues returning to me on his insistence. I allow him to analyze me, my loneliness

materializing into a kind of surrender.

“You haven’t tried to join any clubs or groups? What are your hobbies?” he asks.

“I tried a writing group, but it felt too pretentious for my liking. Really, sitting at the coffee shop

is my hobby.”

“That can’t be all you do.”

“I lack the confidence to do anything else,” I respond glumly, not daring to look him in the eyes

as I say this.

“You underestimate yourself.” He places his hand on my thigh beneath the table, and I can feel

my face color.

He grabs the check and then finally proposes the solution all men propose when faced with

where to go next.

“Want to come back to mine for another glass?”

I know I shouldn’t, but I also don’t know when my next chance at human connection will be.

Almost too desperately, I reply, “Yes, I’d like that.”

______________________________________________________________________________

We enter his apartment, which serves not just as his living space but also as his psychoanalysis

office. Placed in front of a bookshelf containing a myriad of books, I recognize the couch from

his business card. Ironically enough, after lighting a candle and pouring me a glass of wine, he

beckons me to come sit beside him on it. I oblige, curling my legs beneath me in an attempt to

soothe the anticipation possessing my body.

“Have you ever been analyzed?” he asks.

“Ah, yes, just this past hour at dinner, I believe.”

“No, I meant for real?” he laughs.

“No, but I;ve thought about it, I probably need it.”

He grabs my hand gently, and I take another sip from my wine. I am teetering between the edge

of tipsy and drunk, and I can sense he is too.

“Allow me to?”

“Psychoanalyze me?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

I am amused by this and give in. As I do, I can’t help but think of Sabina Spielrein and Carl

Jung, one of the first psychoanalytic acts of transference and romance. Are we recreating that? I

follow his instructions, lying spread out on the couch. I close my eyes, and with lucidity, his

probing begins.

“Tell me about your mornings. Your routine. The coffee shop, the chair you sit in. Why do you

choose the same spot every day?”

I tell him everything: the floral chair, the lamps, the warmth, the watching, the waiting. I tell him

about the loneliness that gnaws at me.

“And well, the most important reason I chose that spot is... I can’t say.” I catch my subconscious

slipping.

“Tell me,” he insists.

“Well, to see you,” I respond, squinting my eyes open as I watch a smile of delight fill his face.

“You project a lot onto the people around you,” he says softly. “You imagine a connection where

none exists yet. And yet, you continue to hope. That hope... it is very human.”

“Don’t you do the same?”

“We all do.”

“So I shouldn’t feel ashamed?”

“Never.”

I sense him moving closer to me, and I can feel my pulse quicken, lust just on the tip of my

tongue.

“You... I think I imagined you long before tonight,” he says, finally breaking the tension.

I look up at him, eyes wide, and he kisses me with both force and hunger. I yield to him entirely;

the act of transference is now complete. It feels like both an answer and a betrayal of my

loneliness. Yet the ecstasy that fills me in this moment drowns out the doubt of my mind.

But of course, delusions always arrive at a shattering halt.

He pulls away from me, chest heaving, and I see the guilt flashing in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, turning away from me. I feel my stomach drop.

“It’s okay,” I try to console him by reaching for his hand.

“No, please, leave.”

My mind suddenly clears, understanding that this is not the connection my loneliness deceived

me to believe it was.

“You deserve better than me taking advantage of you,” he whimpers in a pathetic attempt at

playing the hero I projected onto him.

“I understand,” I respond, rolling my eyes.

Embarrassed, I gather my things and emerge into air that is sharp and shocking. Heart still

pounding, I feel the weight of longing lift from me.

And I know, with a strange, hollow certainty, that I will never see him again.

______________________________________________________________________________

I returned to the coffee shop the next day. The glow of the orange lamps washing over the table

and the floral chair I claim as my own now feel different, emptier, yet I still sit down, filling the

space.

I wait till ten, secretly hoping Damion will appear and we can right the wrongs of last night, but

he never does. Not even an echo of his presence still remains.

Divine intervention once more, leaving me to confront the lessons born from my loneliness.

Hours pass until the sun falls away, reminding me that supper is approaching. I order another

coffee to satisfy my impending hunger. It is bitter like the ache of longing, yet simultaneously

filling like the graciousness of solitude.

“Ms., we’re going to start closing up now,” says the barista, waking me from my absent-minded

ponderings.

I make my way back to my apartment, opening the door. I am greeted with darkness. Nobody

else besides the clown inside the mirror exists alongside me.

I fall into my bed, eyes refusing to close. I comfort myself the best I can.

Desire is fleeting, and in letting that go, I am not empty. I am awake.

______________________________________________________________________________

Marissa Vivian is a writer based in Brooklyn, New York. Her work explores the intersections of femininity, history, and surrealism, often blending personal reflection with cultural commentary. She publishes weekly on her Substack, The Feminine Prose. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her twin sister and her Boston Terrier, Harmony.