Always, I’ve been able to find a category to slip an assignment into. An acquaintance into. Not with Hunter. In all this time, I’ve found no easy file for him.

Last night we had a heated discussion on Sylvia Plath, and this morning I found him paging through a comic book over coffee. When I questioned him on it, his answer was that he respected all forms of literature. I believed him. One of the problems I’m having on this assignment is that I find myself believing everything he says, no matter how contradictory the statement might be to another he makes. Can a total lack of consistency make someone consistent?

He’s the most complex, frustrating, fascinating man I’ve ever known. I’ve yet to find a way of controlling the attraction he holds for me, or even the proper label for it. Is it physical? Hunter’s very compelling physically. Is it intellectual? His mind has such odd twists and turns, it takes all my effort to follow them.

Either of these I believe I could handle successfully enough. Over the years, I’ve had to deal professionally with attractive, intelligent, charismatic men. It’s a challenge, certainly, but here I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’m caught in the middle of a silent chess game and have already lost my queen.

My greatest fear at this moment is that I’m going to find myself emotionally involved.

Since the first day we walked up the canyon, he hasn’t touched me. I can still remember exactly how I felt, exactly what the air smelled like at that moment. It’s foolish, overly romantic and absolutely true.

Each night we sleep together in the same tent, so close I can feel his breath. Each morning I wake alone. I should be grateful that he isn’t making this assignment any more difficult than it already is, and yet I find myself waiting to be held by him.

For over a week I’ve thought of little else but him. The more I learn, the more I want to know—for myself. Too much for myself.

Twice, I’ve woken in the middle of the night, aching, and nearly turned to him. Now, I wonder what would happen if I did. If I believed in the spells and forces Hunter writes of, I’d think one was on me. No one’s ever made me want so much, feel so much. Fear so much. Every night, I wonder.