I am a counselor and at a school. I am working on a case. I go to the administrator's office and he tells me of a woman student that went crazy, screaming and saying things. I take notes and then interview the boyfriend of the husband. He tells me something and I say, "Uh huh. I see. That explains it" (over the phone). I hang up and tell the man that the woman had had a series of tough stresses and when she entered the classroom, the racial slur of the white male student was the straw that broke the camel's back. She snapped. She'll be all right now. He is very impressed with my skills and we start to walk across campus. The boyfriend says, "I want to tell you what she said." I say, "You cannot. It would be unethical to break confidence with a client. If it were me alone, you could tell, because I'm a professional." He really wants to tell, but doesn't. We walk down some curvy stairs. I tell the administrator man of my troubles with the men I work with. They don't accept me. They have some way of deciding who gets space and time and won't let me in on it. I lay tiredly on a round canvas frame where a partial design is rug hooked in. I sigh and say, "Sometimes I think I'll just jump in and take it." Later, the man is sort of Capt. Picard and we have gone off together for a vacation. A woman (me) is cooking or stirring up a special dough. A stick like a wooden hair comb made of twigs is placed in the middle of the dough and the new ingredients can only be poured on the one side. It is an old tradition and is passed on from one to the other (generation, perhaps). He and I are going to have a wonderful time seeing the sunrise and set and swimming and loving.