Moving him toward the door, my legs wobbly, astronaut-like, leading him out of the office, though I’m empty, devoid of feeling, I still sense—without deluding myself—that I’ve accomplished something and then, anticlimactically, we talk for a few minutes more about razor-burn balms and tattersall shirts. There was an odd general lack of urgency to the conversation that I found soothing—nothing happened at all—but when he smiles, hands me his card, leaves, the door closing sounds to me like a billion insects screaming, pounds of bacon sizzling, a vast emptiness. And after he leaves the building (I have Jean buzz Tom at Security to make sure) I call someone recommended by my lawyer, to make sure none of my phones are wiretapped, and after a Xanax I’m able to meet with my nutritionist at an expensive, upscale health-food restaurant called Cuisine de Soy in Tribeca and while sitting beneath the dolphin, stuffed and shellacked, that hangs over the tofu bar, its body bent into an arc, I’m able to ask the nutritionist questions like “Okay, so give me the muffin lowdown” without cringing. Back at the office two hours later, I find out that none of my phones are tapped.

- American Psycho, Detective