The play takes
place in a therapist’s office. The
therapist is holding up his left hand, showing his patient four outstretched
fingers. The patient, a comely
young woman of about twenty-five, is gazing at them impassively.
Therapist (earnestly): What do you see?
Patient: Your left hand.
Therapist:
Expand upon that.
Patient (wearily): Your yellow, papery left
hand. Your palm is as creased as a
lady’s fan, and your nails could use a clipping.
Therapist (irritated): No, no.
Tell me more about the number of fingers you see.
Patient (puzzled): More?
Therapist (gently): Yes.
Patient (frowning with new concentration): Your fingers look like a picket
fence—which must mean that you wish either to exclude me from your world or,
more likely, enfold me in it.
Therapist (astonished): Upon my word, that’s far too much! I just wanted you to
tell me how many fingers you saw.
Patient (bored): I saw all of them.
Therapist (impatient): All what of them?
Patient (coldly): All there was to see of them. Don’t patronize me, Doctor.
Therapist (at his wit’s end): Listen, do you see one finger or two, or three, or four?
Patient:
I’ve told you, I’ve
seen them all. Doctor, you’re beginning to bore me.
Therapist (becoming ever more fascinated, not to say
aroused): I have another idea.
Patient (yawning): Yes?
Therapist (excitedly): Yes. [he
holds up his right hand and extends three of its fingers]
How many fingers do you see now?
(curtain)
