He says something about books, modern books, today’s books. She missed the point he made about them, however, because she was regretfully realigning her strap. The strap he had not touched. He had been a perfect gentleman. She was not prepared for that. She was not in the game for that.

One year left and she is restless and moody, much of the time. There was clearly no quality there, so she thought she would just follow puerile instincts, for once, and move on having had a taste of everything.

He is very kind, and polite, in an unstudied manner. He pays. He holds the door. It all looks as if he is unaware of doing it, unaware that she is a woman and he is a man and this is exceptional behavior of the kind reserved only for men to women, if they choose. She is impressed and pissed off.

They sit under the stars and streetlights. He is thinking out loud. She is listening, interested and also pissed off. Why does he have to be interesting? Why does he have to be thinking, and telling her what he is thinking?

Then he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

She’ll be damned if she is going to tell him, “You.” She only lets that one go with idiots and boys, so that she can laugh at their pleased, “I knew it all along” faces. It is always true—she never lies—but they don’t know how she means it. They believe her smile, and the little laugh that slips out, indicates delight—in them! But if she said it to him, he might smile at her for the same reason, and she might believe the same interpretation.

She has grown weary of the upper hand but she isn’t familiar with any other kind.

Why does he have to be interested in what she is thinking about?