When I woke up on Saturday, I resolved to pull myself out of this slump. But the very fact that I did not understand the slump irritated me all the more. I began working on a paper due on Tuesday, but Ugo Betti and his “emblematic themes” could not compete with Frank’s words going round and round in my head: “Things you probably wouldn’t understand” and “I’m not amused.” How dare he! If I considered myself to be anything, it was bright and amusing. I was the “star” of the dormitory I had lived in, always the center of attention when I wanted it. I was also famous for whipping up a paper in five or six hours, and I had often been propositioned by the other girls to write theirs for them. I wanted to tell him about the time a girl from Shaker Heights laid a hundred dollars on my desk (tempted, I still declined it) and begged me to write something on Sinclair Lewis so she could spend the weekend shacked up with the mechanic who had replaced the spark plugs in her Corvette.

But this paper I was working on did not come together. By Sunday night it was still disjointed and lacking focus. I pushed it aside and asked Gloria if she wanted to go out for a beer. Although she had to get up for work the next morning, she sprang from her chair and got to the door before I did. All weekend she had been watching me the way I imagine doctors watch a terminal case; obviously, she equated my suggestion with improved health.

Just as we reached the parking lot, Frank and a girl were getting out of his car, each with a bag of groceries. Instantly, I consoled myself with the fact that the girl was pale and mousy. But as Frank looked at me and quickly turned away, I was struck by something else: because the girl was so puny, she could easily have been seventeen or eighteen, but she could also have been as young as fourteen. What really got to me were the groceries; somehow, they seemed just as suggestive as a toothbrush and pajamas.

“What a sorry-looking little thing she is,” I muttered as we drove away.

“That’s exactly what I told you about,” said Gloria. “And she’ll probably be sorrier for getting mixed up with him.”

I didn’t answer. I waited until we got to the Campus Keg and had a beer in front of us, then told her what had happened in the union grill. She looked at me in surprise.

“You mean you went over to him?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” I protested.

“Oh, brother!” she said, rolling her eyes. “Are you suddenly develop­ing a taste for strange excitement?”

It was bad enough being angry at him, but Gloria’s criticism of me tempted me into playing devil’s advocate.

“Don’t get dramatic,” I said. “What is he—Jack the Ripper?”

“Meet him in the fog sometime and find out.” She lifted her glass of beer and was about to sip, when suddenly her face turned sly. “Waaaait a minute. Is that why . . .” She leaned forward. “Is that little incident with him the reason you’ve been obnoxious all weekend?”