I’d never associated Pike Place Market with psychoanalysis. I came here several times a week. Yet I’d never connected the two in my conscious mind. This morning, before the session, I drank an Americano and wrote in my journal in a coffee shop, a block from both the market and the couch. I walk to the fourth floor office from where I work and live, a forty or forty-five minute walk, which I know I’m fortunate enough to have the time to do. I’m also fortunate to have the time and the means to be in psychoanalysis. I’ve discovered that time takes on several meanings in psychoanalytic treatment. There’s the time I put aside each day that I walk to the heart of downtown to lie on Martin’s couch for fifty minutes. On the way home, I often shorten the distance and the time of the trip by riding the light rail to the station near our apartment. And it’s not only Martin’s couch. It’s the psychoanalytic one, which we have Freud to thank for. The time I spend in my analyst’s office is impossible to measure. It becomes unconscious time. Sometimes I’m disoriented at some point in the hour. Then there’s the time I write and think and imagine the sessions, at my desk or in a coffee shop like this one. After finishing the previous sentence, I glanced at the clock on the wall and realized that I had only a few minutes to walk the block to his office. Endings were difficult for me. I was minutes away from another beginning.