After a long time she said, her breath labored, her face still turned away, “Am I embarrassing you?”

Marya’s throat and chest were so constricted she couldn’t reply.

A MARYA KNAUER anecdote, told by Imogene with peals of cruel ribald laughter.

Imogene insisted that Marya accompany her on a date, yes a “date,” an actual “date” (though it was generally thought that Marya shunned men because she imagined they weren’t serious enough). Her escort was Matthew Pine, of all people—Matthew who had seemed to dislike Marya but who in fact (so Imogene revealed) had simply been afraid of her.

“Afraid of me? you’re being ridiculous,” Marya said. She hardly knew whether to be hurt or flattered.

“Of course he’s afraid of you, or was,” Imogene said. “And my poor sorority sisters!—they told me afterward they’d never seen such eyes as yours—taking them all in and condemning them! Those assholes!”

It would be an ordinary evening, Imogene promised, no need to dress up, no need for the high-heels-stockings routine, though it was perfectly all right (so Imogene said innocently) if Marya wanted to comb her hair. Imogene’s date for the evening was a senior in business administration and advertising whose name Marya never caught, or purposefully declined to hear. They drove out to a suburban mall to see a movie—in fact it was a pretentious French “film”—and then they went to a local Italian restaurant where everyone, excepting of course Marya, drank too much; and then they drove to the water-tower hill where numerous other cars were parked, their headlights off. Marya stiffened. Matthew had not yet touched her but she knew that he would be kissing her in another minute; and she had no idea of how to escape gracefully.

“ . . . few minutes?” Imogene murmured from the front seat.

She was sending them away! Marya saw with disbelief that, by the time she and Matthew climbed out of the car, Imogene and her date were locked in a ravenous embrace. One would have thought the two of them lovers; one would have thought them at least fond of each other. Marya’s heart was beating frantically. That bitch! That bitch! Marya worried that she might suffocate—she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

Matthew took her cold unresisting hand. He slipped his arm around her shoulders.

They were meant to stroll for a few minutes along the darkened path, to contemplate, perhaps, the view of Port Oriskany below, all sparkling winking lights. A romantic sight, no doubt. Beautiful in its way. Matthew was saying something rather forced, making a joke of some kind—about the French movie?—about Imogene’s reckless behavior?—but Marya interrupted. “Isn’t she supposed to be engaged?” she asked. “Yes, I suppose so,” Matthew said in resignation, “but she does this all the time. It’s just Imogene.” “She does this all the time?” Marya said, “but why?” Matthew laughed uncomfortably. He was not quite Marya’s height and his dark eyes shied away from hers. “I don’t know,” he said defensively. “As I said, it’s just Imogene, it’s her business. Why shouldn’t she do what she wants to do? Don’t be angry with me.”