An Imperishable Romance

I’ve been trying to get hold of someone to have some fun with. They both have. Let’s pretend nothing is awkward. Three of us abreast, with the ancient and august chapel behind us, and in front of us the alarm was not so great. It was the moon. When he squealed about the moon, what I said was, “You should have seen it this afternoon! It was so big and red!”

I had made a mistake.

The crux of her advice about walking in the cold toward our car, way down the road, was, “You just have to do it.” We were not dressed for the cold. As a group, we had looked at her black suede French oxfords be­cause we had wanted to, and she didn’t want to get them ruined in the dark. She watched her step. I watched my boots. Yes, they sank into the grass at least an inch, not out of sight. I had told him which of his shoes to be wearing. When we were alone, I had spoken to him while tapping, “I like this and this and this.”

Certain things should not be spoken of in front of children. I agree with that. Children should not do certain things, and I agree with that. Thank God, she ran like hell, once out of the car, at her house.

It’s a Japanese lantern hanging up there—wildly picturesque—before you get to her front door. Has this person never heard of a bood?—my favorite word for it.