And that you will never be lonely again or be scared or not be able to sleep or be bored or unhappy. But it’s all bullshit, obviously. Drugs are hell. Nothing you believe is real. It’s the drugs, you understand?” Karen puts her white, absurdly long arm around Don, who still hasn’t grown, who still looks like a relatively heavily pigmented, square boxer.

“It’s not real.” Says Karen. “You have to fight the effect of the drugs. Suppress every thought that tries to put you on a park bench with that person or hugging. Choke it off. And swap it out for a real thought.”

“Like what?” asks Don.

“The reality is,” answers Karen, “that the person isn’t with you, doesn’t look at you rapturously, isn’t trying to get near you, doesn’t want to rub up against you.”

“But the person can’t just love one of the others. That’s insane.” Says Don, still staring into the kitchen, where the two models stand, devouring each other with their eyes.

“When two people are both on drugs at the same time, they look like mental cases, they fidget around with each other, they don’t know what to talk about. In your case one of the two parties is totally relaxed in your presence. People on drugs are not relaxed. They sweat, they’re nervous, insecure, stuttering.”

“How long does it last? When does it stop?” Karen looks at Don to try to estimate the seriousness of her condition. She’s known for weeks that Don has fallen in love with Hannah and that this infatuation won’t go anywhere because Hannah and Peter are in love with each other. She’s worried about the cohesiveness of the group, she’s worried that this family they’ve put together by choice will be destroyed by the stupid hormones of youth, she’s worried about herself, she who hasn’t fallen in love with anyone and never will, she’s worried about the rootlessness that threatens them.

“If you don’t see the person,” she says, “it’ll get better in two weeks. If you have to see the person daily it’ll take at least a month. If your person is infatuated with somebody else”—quick glance toward the kitchen, that is, toward the stove and table standing at the other end of the hall—“then it’s very painful. Should only last three weeks, though.”

“Three weeks. Can I count on that?” Asks Don.

“Yes,” Karen answers, “and now have a bit of a cry. I can’t help you any further.” Karen runs her hand over Don’s frizzy hair. And is almost inclined to press herself to her, but that would be too much.

Nobody presses against anyone else here. Not

DON