“At least you’re willing to say hello.”

“Been a long day,” Loudermilk says.

“Where ya goin’?”

“Somewhere.”

“Where’s that?”

“Have you ever heard,” Loudermilk airily brings about, “of something called a hint?”

“You’re totally welcome and it’s so not a problem! I’d love to hang out.” Lizzie releases a perfect smoke ring.

“Sorry, we’re indisposed.”

“Come on, please? You guys seem cool! I like you!”

“Lots of people like us.”

Lizzie smiles. “Are you sure?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?”

“Hi, Harry,” Lizzie says.

Harry nods.

“Don’t encourage her!” Loudermilk snaps.

Harry recalls the agitation with which Loudermilk had informed him that Lizzie was the spawn of his poetry teacher. Of course this had been earlier, in the afternoon, previous to Harry’s complete and utter divestment of self-respect while inside the Common Lot.

“Listen, guess what and surprise! You’re in my dad’s poetry class! A, sorry I didn’t mention that, and B, he already talked about you.”

“I’m not surprised,” Loudermilk tells her.

“Will you please just listen to me for one half a second? I’m trying to tell you he was telling my mom you have some kind of crazy oversized ego and they fucked up the funding again. You really must have done something to piss him off!”

“What? That’s insane.”

“Um, it’s really not.”

It occurs to Harry that he may in fact like this Lizzie person, in spite of her extremely sensuous mouth. Though somehow it’s someone else who’s seeing this mouth. He should write this down, he reflects.

“Hello, he’s the director? He can take your funding away if he wants to. You know that, right?”

“We signed a contract. That’s impossible.”

“We? Who is ‘we’?”

“I, OK, I signed a contract! They can’t just take the money away.”

“Not this year, they can’t.” Lizzie takes out a fresh cigarette. She taps it contemplatively against the top of the pack. “But you weren’t at orientation, were you, Loudermilk, so, like, I guess you would have missed out on that little fact of life. Like, it’s pretty lucky for you we’re having this chat now? Too bad you’re not interested.”

“Did I say that?” Loudermilk is gearing himself up for contrition. He has rearranged his face.

“My dad hates to reward jackasses, by the way. Totally his pet peeve.”

“I would have expected nothing less from a towering giant of the poetry world.”

Lizzie ignores him. “You want to go someplace or not?”

Loudermilk looks at Harry. Harry just stares right back.

“I’m saying, it’s so gross around here? So plebeian? Let’s go to the park. Harry’s invited, of course.”

“Whatever.” Loudermilk sighs.

They start walking.

Lizzie is persistent. “Like a few days ago you were so nice? What happened?”

“Is it that you have no friends? Is that what it is?”