Through it all, I kept replaying her peeling off her pantyhose and only managed to keep my head straight by focusing on the plates of chow mein on the steam counter. Then after paying for my coffee and Glenna’s tea, I sat across from her at a Formica-topped table and got lost looking at her. She was discussing the moral debate surrounding abortion and the scientific response to it, and I could neither stop staring nor follow what she was saying.

Glenna said, “I don’t know much about being a reporter, but aren’t you supposed to be writing this down?”

“This is background,” I said, uncapping my Bic pen and opening my spiral notebook.

I had just started taking notes when guys in white lab jackets—other medical students and doctors with bald spots and bifocals—began stopping at our table to say hello. They asked about her summer (“I was around,” she replied vaguely), or where she was living (“In the Bronx,” she said, equally vague). I was annoyed; I did have an interview to do; and furthermore, I didn’t want her paying attention to anybody but me.

I was on my second page of notes when another guy, built like a cross-country runner, tapped Glenna on the shoulder. His face, with its perfectly planed nose and jutting jaw, had a studied indifference, and his fine, straw-colored hair was receding at his temples and tumbling in his eyes. Under his lab jacket, he wore a candy-striped, button-down shirt and a red tie with black stripes. His cuffed khakis were baggy, and his Top-Siders were so beat he must have had them since Mummy and Father sentenced him to Choate or wherever rich WASPs dumped their kids so they could dissipate the family fortune in peace.

This guy was particularly annoying because his hand was lingering on her shoulder. He was also the only one that Glenna introduced me to: his name was Palmer Chilton, but I was already thinking of him as Biff the Brooks Brothers Mouse.

“When will you be home for dinner?” Biff asked, and my heart sank. “I’m barbecuing lamb chops.”

Glenna looked at me. “Are we almost done?”

Not ready to ask her out, I said, “We can stop. But I need to do another interview.”

Her eyes narrowed in a way that hinted she may have been onto my game. She told Biff that she’d be home by seven, and he departed without mentioning how nice it had been to meet me. I’d figured him for better manners.

“I’ve gotta split,” Glenna said, standing up. “I think I’m late again.”

“Who’s Palmer?”

“Palmer’s president of NYMSRAL. He’s an ob-gyn resident here.”

Hoping to sound casually inquisitive, I asked, “You and Palmer been living together awhile?”

“A couple years. Is this more background?”

“Just curious.”

“Curiosity’s good for a journalist,” she said. “Being handsome must also help.”

“Don’t know. This is my first story.”

“I suppose you’ll find out.” She started to walk away. After a few steps, she turned. “Palmer and me: same house, different beds.”