“God only knows what they do in there,” said Janet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he practices voodoo.”

When I finally saw him again, it wasn’t in our apartment building but in the student union grill. Sitting alone in a booth, he had a book in front of him, from which he read only bits at a time. He would lift his eyes from the page and squint pensively, giving the impression he was not about to accept anything until he had taken it apart for himself. While I stood in the cafeteria line waiting for my cheeseburger, I stared at him, but I was analyzing myself. Why in hell did he interest me? There had been other guys, much more appealing in every respect, whom I had found unattainable, and I had never compromised myself by pursuing them. Here I was a student of Literature and therefore, I figured, a student of human motives and emotions; still, I could not put a finger on the motives behind my own behavior. I wasn’t out husband-hunting, I didn’t suffer from nymphomania, I had no penchant for tall men, I wasn’t a masochist who enjoyed rejection, I had little interest in history or politics or anything else he was likely to talk about, I was unimpressed by his bohemian appearance, and I certainly wasn’t one of those lost little girls who need a man to tell them who they are.

“Hi. Remember me?”

He looked up and blinked. He was still absorbed in his book and his own thoughts. I felt like the violator of some intimate connection.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember. The eavesdropper.”

I sensed I wouldn’t be invited, so I sat down immediately.

“Well, eavesdropping is one way of finding out things. Another thing I’ve found out is that you make your girlfriends cry.”

His mouth tightened. “Let’s put it another way: I let them cry.”

“Oh? And what do they have to cry about?”

“Things you probably wouldn’t understand.” Said oh, so politely, but it was a definite swipe. An emotional snob, I thought.

“Do you run ads in the paper? ‘Strong shoulder seeks tears’? Or ‘Have compassion, will travel’?”

He inhaled deeply and looked away.

“Well,” I continued, “how do you meet them?”

“You don’t strike me as the type who goes in for small talk. Why are you doing it with me?”

“I wouldn’t classify this as small talk. Unless you consider your personal life small.”

“You’re very good at passing the ball. If you’ll excuse me, I—”

“No. Please. I don’t like eating alone.”

“You came in here alone.”

“But now I’m not. Please stay.”

“I’m too uncomfortable,” he said.

“I make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” His face reddened, his tone hardened. “I don’t know what you’re up to. But whatever it is, it’s not attractive, and I’m not amused.”

“You mean I’m not your type?”

He winced at this, picked up his book and left.

I sulked the entire evening. Gloria and I played Scrabble. I drew nothing but vowels, cursed my luck, snapped at Gloria, smoked one cigarette after another, criticized Rita Hayworth’s acting on the midnight movie, and went to bed with a headache.