Doctor Fitch said it might be a good idea for me to keep a journal. He thought it might be helpful. He said I didn’t have to show it to him—that the act of writing things down might have a beneficial effect. I wanted to ask him what sort of beneficial effect, but as usual, I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.

Back when I was six I had a diary, a present from Grandma. It had a little silver key. I remember being so proud of it, so proud that I could write, though half of it was scribbles. I knew what the scribbles meant, I just couldn’t do the real words. Then after a few days somehow I lost the key. I was so angry. I looked and looked but I couldn’t find it. I was so mad. I stuffed the diary in the trash. Then later, maybe a month, I don’t know, I found the key. It was in the pocket of a pair of my jeans. So now I had the key but it was useless. I don’t remember what I did with the key. Maybe it’s still in Mom’s house somewhere.

I don’t think this is being helpful. Maybe I’m avoiding what I want to write about. Or what I feel I should write about. The art gallery.

I thought about applying for a job there. Receptionist, or something. I’d had some art classes, so it’s not like I’m clueless. But I chickened out, as usual, and just looked at the paintings and sculptures and such. Some of them I kind of liked. Not that I could afford to buy any of them. Not that I’d necessarily want any of them in my apartment.

Except this one—I don’t know. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

It was called UBee Boy, or something like that. I just glanced at the credit note and I didn’t really catch the artist’s name. The painting was set in some kind of African landscape. I’m guessing about that, never having been in Africa. It could have been Kansas, for all I know. A field of wheat, or whatever. But there was an African sort of tree in the background. Mostly I concentrated on the foreground. The Ubee Boy.

I’m not sure it’s right to call him a boy. I mean he was at least into his late teens, maybe his early twenties. Practically my age. And he was looking right at me. In the painting. And he was naked. Crouched. As if startled. Or maybe hunting. Maybe he was startled by me! Or hunting me. Or something in between. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His expression. I had no idea what it meant. It was almost a smirk. It was sort of accusatory. What exactly he might be accusing me of, I have no idea. Maybe that I was looking at him.