“Europe’s a big place,” he says; such a Denton thing to say.

“Yep, it shore is.”

We stand there a little while longer. It’s still snowing. The streetlights suddenly go on even though it’s only a little after three. We both laugh at this. For some reason I think of that night in the cafe when he was looking over at me; how his face had clouded over; was he still in love with me? Was he jealous of other people I was with? I feel I have to glue things. I say, “He really likes you.”

He looks confused, and then embarrassed, understanding. “Yeah? Great. That’s great.”

“No,” I say. “I mean it.”

Pause, then he asks, “Who?”

“You know,” I laugh.

“Oh…” He pretends to understand. “He’s got a nice smile,” he finally admits.

“Oh yeah. He does,” I agree.

This is ludicrous, but I’m in a better mood, and in half an hour Victor will be back and the two of us will be off. I will not tell him about the abortion. There is no need.

“He talks about you a lot,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s…” He’s flustered and doesn’t know what to say. “That’s nice. I don’t know. Are you two still—”

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

“I see.”

More pausing.

“Well, it’s good to see you again,” I say.

“I know. It’s too bad we didn’t get to talk after, whenever,” he says, blushes.

“Oh, I know,” I say. He means September; drunken sad night in his room. “That was crazy,” I say shaking my head. “Yes. Crazy,” I say again.

There are people playing Frisbee in the snow. I concentrate on that.

“Listen,” he starts. “Did you put notes in his box?” he asks.

“Whose box?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“I thought you were putting notes in his box,” he says.

“I didn’t put notes in anyone’s box,” I tell him. “Notes?”

“I took some notes out of his box that I thought were yours,” he says, looking pained.

I study his face. “No. It wasn’t me. Wrong person.”

“Don’t tell him,” he says. “Oh, tell him. Whatever.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” I say.

“You’re right,” he quickly agrees without thinking.

“It doesn’t matter to people like him,” I say, or to people like us, but that’s only a momentary thought and it leaves quickly.

“You’re right,” he says again.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask him. “I’m not really doing anything.”

“No,” he says. “I’ve got to get packing.”

“Listen, do you have my address?” I ask him.

We exchange addresses, snow running the ink on the back of the magazine he’s holding. The pages in my address book get wet. We stare at each other once more before parting, why? Deciding if maybe something was lost? Not quite sure? We promise to keep in touch anyway and call over vacation. We kiss politely and then he goes his way and I go mine, back to my room which is packed and clean and ready and I wait there feeling not that much different than I did in September, or October, or for that matter, November, for Victor with some certainty.

PAUL I started walking but was then running when I caught sight of the motorcycle at the Guard House. I was walking quickly at first, then jogging, then I broke into a full-fledged run, but Sean, who had a helmet on, started driving faster, skidding at first on the wet snowy lane, then regaining speed. I don’t know why I was running after that motorcycle but I was. I was running fast too, skipping over piles of snow, moving faster than I can ever remember moving. And it wasn’t because of Sean. It was too late for that. There had already been a Richard and a Gerald and too many carnal thoughts about others. But I was running and I was running because it felt like the “right” thing to do. It was a chance to show some emotion. I wasn’t acting on passion. I was simply acting. Because it seemed the only thing to do. It seemed like something I had been told to do. By who, or by what, was vague. The bike sped up and disappeared around a curve and I never caught up with it.

I stopped and stood there on College Drive panting, bent over. A car pulled up. It was some guy who lived across the hall from me; Sven or Sylvester—something like that. He asked if I needed a ride. I could hear the song playing on the radio, an old childhood tune: “Thank You for Being a Friend.” I stopped panting and I started nodding, laughing my head off, feeling unchanged.