Vienna as a whole is dull and grey but the Freud museum is very red. The famous couch is red, the carpet is red and the person who takes your money has a fat red face. You walk around the room with a guidebook. Everything is numbered -- every letter, every book, every picture, every post card, every handkerchief, every chair. Your eyes jump from 14. a photo of Jung to 15. Freud's pipe collection. For a long time you look for number 36 which the guidebook says is Uber Coca, Freud's first paper on cocaine. Number 35 was Freud's telephone stand. You look at Donna who looks exasperated and nods in agreement -- Freud's museum is chaotic. You picture Freud doing a lot of cocaine before arranging his museum. You picture him standing in front of it proudly: "I call it Whimsy," he says. His nose is rimmed in white.

Donna looks offended: "It's not what I expected."

You shrug and nod apologetically while staring at a postcard of a black and white Freud sitting in front of his couch. You hope this doesn't lead to further discussion about the trip you planned before the relationship became something to either be saved or ended. She pulls away as if you've said this, as if you've revealed your real self. "You're the one who's made things this way. I want you to always remember this was your choice."

This comment kicks off a morose mood that ends under thick covers in a cold hotel room. Donna lies flat with the covers up to her neck. You sit next to her and read about Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele in the guidebook. "You sabotage everything," Donna says, in a still voice. "me, the relationship, even yourself."

You do not want to have this conversation. You turn to the next page hoping some great insight will come into your head and out of your mouth. As you stare at Schiele's painting of a young woman's crotch, you can feel Donna's hand moving up your leg. As her fingers reach your hipbone, your hand removes hers. But she is insistent and for a second she struggles with you. She is stronger than you are, but she gives up, pulling her long hand out of yours. She hunches over in the bed crying: "You don't care, you never cared, you are incapable of caring."

You stare at Donna. You are shocked at her reaction. The sobs and hysteria unnerve you. You are dimly aware that not long ago, you could have enjoyed this. But now you simply wish you weren't there. You try to feel something, try to make her words untrue. But you cannot respond with words or touch. You cannot even look appropriately miserable. The evidence of the moment is stacked against you and you cannot even remember what your side of the story is.

"I did love you," you say, after a while. Once these words congeal in the air, you know it's over. She cries even harder, her arms around her stomach, her head on her knees. The only other time you have seen her as helplessly sad is when she told you about her sister's suicide. Then, you held her and kissed her until her sobs subsided. Now, you are the cause and pretending has become impossible, even for the two of you.