“Do you think we’ll ever fall in love?”

“With our books?”

“With men. Boys. Whatever.”

“I don’t know. They’re all-”

“I know.”

“Sometimes I think I’m too selfish to fall in love. I mean too much involved with myself, actually.”

“I don’t think you’re a selfish person at all. Not even in that sense.”

“I don’t think I’m lovable.”

“Hell, pudding, I love you.”

“And I love you, but-”

“That’s the solution, then. We’ll become lesbians. This wine isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

“When will that happen? I don’t seem to be getting used to it.”

“It takes time, that’s all. You know, we really could become lesbians.”

“I wish they had courses in it.”

“What would be more natural, Prissy, than for two people who love each other to become lovers?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“What would you do if I kissed you?”

“Close my eyes and think of Paul Newman.”

“Come here and try it.”

“Huh?”

Sitting upright, the bedsheet falling away from her full breasts: “Get over here and kiss me.”

Django, by the Modern Jazz Quartet. The smells of cigarette smoke and wine and unwashed clothes. Going to the bed, head buzzing with a feel of unreality, weird, weird. Her eyes draw me as light draws insects. Depths and intricacies. Kissing, her mouth under mine, warm, yielding, and then her arms flung convulsively around me, holding me. Her breasts under my breasts.

Voices in my brain. One, slightly hysterical, shouting that I was kissing my roommate, for Christ’s sake, that I was kissing a girl, for Christ’s sake, that I must be out of my mind or hopelessly perverted. A voice of soft reason saying Be careful, go slow, be careful, this is deep water. And another voice, light and free as myself, saying airily that nothing could feel this good and have anything bad about it.