I paddled back into the office and opened the door. Sunlight and cool air closed my eyes. When I squinted at her, Ann held out a large paper cup with a plastic top. I took it and stepped back so she could come in.

When she was inside, I closed the door and she handed me a small white paper bag. I carried the coffee and the bag to my desk and sat. Ann sat across from me. She opened the lid of her coffee.

“You have a joke for me?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

I owed her a joke, my assignment from our last session. I was collecting them, telling them to her, part of my therapy. I had not yet found any of the jokes funny.

I drank some coffee. It was warm. I pulled an almond biscotti out of the bag. It was crisp and firm. I shrugged.

“No joke? All right. I’ll tell one. How many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb?” she asked.

I shrugged again and considered dipping my biscotti. I had a vision of my grandfather doing this with biscotti made by my grandmother. I imagined crumbs wet from coffee dropping onto my grandparents’ mottled Formica kitchen table.

“Just one,” answered Ann, “but the lightbulb really has to be ready,” she said. “Your turn.”

“A new patient comes into the psychologist’s office,” I said. “The psychologist says, ‘Tell me your problem, start at the beginning.’ And the patient says, ‘In the beginning, I created the heavens and the earth.’”

“It’s hazelnut,” Ann said. “The coffee.”

I nodded and drank.

“You think we create our own heaven and earth?” she asked.

“It’s a joke,” I said.

“A joke is never just a joke,” she said, pointing her biscotti at me.

“Freud,” I said.

“Truth,” she answered.