Johnny came out, brushing through the beaded curtain that divided the bedroom and bathroom off from the living room.

If he wants me to go to bed with him tonight, l think I'm going to say okay.

And it was a warm thought, like coming home.

“What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” she said, tossing the mask back to the sofa.

“No, really. Was it something good?”

“Johnny,” she said, putting a hand on his chest and standing on tiptoe to kiss him lightly, “some things will never be told. Come on, let's go.”

They paused downstairs in the foyer while he buttoned his denim jacket, and she found her eyes drawn again to the STRIKE! poster with its clenched fist and flaming background.

“There'll be another student strike this year,” he said, following her eyes.

“The war?”

“That's only going to be part of it this time. Vietnam and the fight over ROTC and Kent State have activated more students than ever before. I doubt if there's ever been a time when there were so few grunts taking up space at the university.”

“What do you mean, grunts?”

“Kids just studying to make grades, with no interest in the system except that it provides them with a ten-thousand-dollar a year job when they get out. A grunt is a student who gives a shit about nothing except his sheep skin. That's over. Most of them are awake. There are going to be some big changes.”

“Is that important to you? Even though you're out?”

He drew himself up. “Madam, I am an alumnus. Smith, class of “70. Fill the stems to dear old Maine.”

She smiled. “Come on, let's go. I want a ride on the whip before they shut it down for the night.”

“Very good,” he said, taking her arm. “I just happen to have your car parked around the corner.”

“And eight dollars. The evening fairly glitters before us.

The night was overcast but not rainy, mild for late October. Overhead, a quarter moon was struggling to make it through the cloud cover. Johnny slipped an arm around her and she moved closer to him.