I remember we were driving, driving in your car.

A year ago, when The Animus wasn't yet The Animus, but still an independent woman, I had gone out of town to sit at a roundtable discussion in DC for Dr. Faustus and all his friends. I came back on a late flight, forgot half of my things at my parents', doubled home, set out still later. I might have been speeding along the major route numbers.

When I got to Portsmouth I would have calmed down, slowed down. I would have been excited. There would have been a chain of cars in which I found myself, a police cruising the other way; no matter, we drove.

The police turned around and pulled me over. "Are you aware of how fast you were going?"

"I thought I was going with the flow of traffic."

"Why are you out so late?"

"I'm returning from out of town. I was at a conference in DC."

"Where are you going?"

"A...friend's house."

"Were you drinking tonight?"

"Not at all."

"Not even one beer?"

"No."

"Are you sure you haven't had any alcohol?"

Her tone had grown more incredulous yet less aggressive as the conversation wore on, as it became clear to both of us that I hadn't really been speeding, that I hadn't been drinking. As it became clearer to her that there was something, certainly, on my mind, something I didn't want to reveal to anyone, something that, then, still seemed like a Secret Never To Be Told. Not drugs. Not drink. Just the phenomenon of the closet.