“Babe, I’m in Krumsville right now,” I said, and remembering Krumsville nearly made me smile. I hadn’t thought of it in years. It was part of the interior language of a relationship I’d had after college with an ill-tempered, irrational blonde named Marcie. She was from Pennsylvania, and on an idle weekend, we rented a car and drove two and a half hours from New York to her little hometown of Frackville, passing along the way a highway sign reading KRUMSVILLE. The name struck me as dispiriting and forlorn, and all I could picture was a large, furry creature wearing an equally large frown, and from that point on, Krumsville became a cutesy part of our secret dialogue, meaning I’m not feeling well today, that I’m a little down but don’t worry I’ll be better soon, but please be gentle in the meantime. Uttering the word always made us feel better, if only marginally. But of course our relationship couldn’t be sustained by sweetly optimistic adjectives alone, and in the end we parted ways, as I have with many others. People enter our life and then they leave it, and once we reach a certain age it becomes a question of sustainability. Are we gaining as many people as we’re losing? Because we’re always losing people.

“Come on,” she said, almost in a whine. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

We took the train down to Michigan Avenue. We held hands and weaved through the hordes of tourists, most of whom stood smack-dab in the middle of the sidewalk gazing up at the various buildings, forcing us to walk around them to get by. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, giving the appearance of summer, but the cold and wind said otherwise, though neither had dissuaded the tourists from coming in droves.

“Any place in particular?” I asked.

“Nope. Just want to walk.”

We started by entering a bookstore for coffee and stayed long enough to find Hemingway so I could thumb through a few books and read Carolyn some of my favorite passages. She went along with it, helping lift a portion of the morning’s bad feelings, but when we walked outside, the pervasive crowds brought it all right back.

We stopped in clothing stores, a store that sold cologne and perfume, a chocolatier, a lingerie store. Carolyn sifted through pairs of panties and bras until I had to leave. Throughout my life I’ve always had trouble maintaining any degree of civility in the presence of women’s panties. Even when they’re flat and lifeless on a store table, the sight of them incites an increased heart rate so that I can feel my pulse in my peter. And when there are other women around, especially those of the attractive variety, delicately holding a particular pair in their slender fingers to feel the quality of the fabric . . . Forget about it. It’s just too much.