I saw an ad in newspapers about a trip to the mountains and I got in without knowing anybody. About 30 of us crowded in a big race vehicle, so boys and girls, parcels, cigarette smoke, and jokes mixed up together at random. A certain Biţă was speaking in my ear untiringly. He was telling everybody that he was hungry, and he soon started to eat, letting out strident exclamations with every mouthful. When satiated, he came up with unending puns. I got persuaded then that people who want to be funny and use puns are the most tortured people. Some made fun of him, and this way they encouraged him. Lawyer Constantin Popescu even emphasized: "What did you say?" Laughter, yelling, interjections, questions and answers that did not go together. I put my forehead to the window and began to look at the trees we were speeding by. All of a sudden in a corner, I saw Girlie, with an older partner. My first impression: little and funny, although stern. A weird apparition, but I could not say why. Perhaps because she looked so young, but had wrinkles on her neck and forehead. Her neck seemed pretty short. I placed my forehead on the window again, and forgot all about her. Later, when we got to know each other better, I told her stroking her: "What I like most about you is that you're a little funny thing!" The phrase "funny thing" was supposed to be in tune with the impression I got at first, but I had sweetened it, adding "little." What had at first appeared to me to be nothing more than funny now became a reason for affection, but I did not want to deny my first impression, because I knew that impression would have endured alongside a new one and would have suggested suspicion. I was only trying to easily transform my first image the way it made me happy, namely to lie to myself, to cheat. This idea that her neck was too short stayed in my mind, and when I looked at her more closely I saw that it was not true, no matter how I would have measured it. Still, I would start reexamining her again, because my first impression had made me suspicious and I could not chase away that feeling, no matter how deeply I became convinced that it was not fair, and then maybe I wanted to make sure that I was wrong about the rest because I was wrong in that first impression, when I had felt her countenance was slightly comical. I had added "little" to "funny thing," knowing that the latter phrase was according my taste, and therefore, the most capable of diminishing my discontent. It surely synthesizes everything I feel for her. She is very little (80 lbs.!), thin, delicate, and when you see her wearing man's pajamas trying to sleep, with her feet as big as a fist in her slippers and her little hands that seem ready to crash if you squeeze them, I feel like hugging her the way you hug a child and cradle her for ever. At a stop we all got off, and I was able to see her better. She was wearing a brown suit, like a man's, which became her perfectly, she had a hat and low-heel boots, probably borrowed from some child. She walked slightly shivering, as if it had been cold. She had her hands in her pants' pockets. I heard her speak to Mitru, the guy she was sitting next to on the bus: "I'm so happy to keep my hands in my pockets! I don't wanna tak'em off!" I thought: does she believe it is "interesting" to say such trivial things, and then the fact that she kept her hands in her pockets was not haphazard, it was a posture! And as a wedding was passing on at the same time, Girlie added: "Some people are still getting married! I did that once and I don't ever wanna hear about it again!" What exactly did she mean? Had this baby-girl been married? Was she divorced? Did he die? Could she be carrying a tragedy on her shoulders, along with those man's clothes, hat, and low-heel boots? Perhaps it was a joke, and I did not understand… Then, on the mountain tops. We had left beech-tree forests behind us, then fir-tree ones, stretching out in the valley like waves, in all colors, in all frets. Nothing but hard rock near us, with some grass. And snow spots. We all sat down to rest, we took the food out of our bags. We forgot about the dirty city. Girlie was eating beside me near Mitru, both out of the same bag. What is the deal between them? Perhaps… They are on a first-name basis (but they all are), they kid each other as if they had known each other for a long time. Here is one of Mitru's "Eat, Girlie, or otherwise I'll report you at home." Which means that Mitru knows her home. The fact that he says this so openly should suggest that it does not prove anything (perhaps they are relatives), or everything is so normal between them, that they have no reason to hide? What made me think about bad things was the fact that Mitru only started to be so familiar with Girlie later on, as if he had hesitated for a while and then he made up his mind, because of the favorable group atmosphere. Or perhaps I only noticed his familiarity later. My remarks may be accurate without anything going on between them: Mitru wanted to stop people from imagining bad things because they had just met. Later on a little scene made me doubt this. Mitru answered an indiscreet question of Constantin Popescu's: "There is nothing going on between us, really! We've known each other for a very long time because we are neighbors." Mitru's assurance could not create any certitude, and Constantin Popescu laughed, not believing him. Up there on the snowy crest I liked Girlie's voice, when she answered Mitru. Of course, not for what she said, as the conversation mainly focused on food. But her accent was harmonious, and mostly I liked her short sentences, hurrying, with a lot of breaks between them, and everything was normal, without anything artificial, without an impression of a spoiled being. By chance, at a certain point she mentioned she had gone to school in G city. I had been a teacher there for a long time, and I tried to think of common memories, even if we had not met. She had left school long before I showed up in town, which means she is not such as child as she looks. In fact, she mentioned the year when she graduated without any feminine coquetry in hiding anything. So she was about 28! Amazing! She did not look 28. Her marriage troubles had had the time to be true. And since it was impossible for me to speak about G city without mentioning the wonderful teacher Olga Dimitriu, she told me she had had her as a teacher, the best teacher. And up there on the mountain top, with snow near us and forests in the valley, as she was putting salt on an egg, Girlie learned from me that Olga Dimitriu had died a year before. A slight surprise, an "oh, I'm sorry!" and then the conversation moved on (or perhaps Mitru interrupted it: "Eat fat, Girlie!"). I thought Girlie is solving such a precious death so fast! But perhaps it was the mountains, because any human concerned seemed little compared to them, that moment. In fact, had I not used Olga Dimitriu to make friends? It is true that I had grown accustomed to the idea, while she had just heard it. But feeling sorry for really deep people, should it not be the same over time, like constant pressure, without explosions and surprises?When we returned, we relaxed for a few minutes together, near a foaming river. And then we separated, and we ran into each other again, near the bus. Girlie happened to tell me: "I have a lot of work at the office." "You do? That much?" "Usually 10 hours a day." "And you're probably not in the least interested in what you do." "Absolutely not!" "You must be desperate!" "Very desperate!" Oh! The tone of her voice when she said "very desperate!" The vibration went out of her, and upset my whole being! An entire world of disasters hovered around us that moment! All of a sudden, a haphazard question had started so many tempests! I received this unexpected discovery with huge delight (like you feel when you listen to the funeral march of Beethoven's third symphony) and fright. I tried to make her feel better with words I speak to myself sometimes: "There are two categories of people: the happy and the unhappy! The unhappy ones are the only people having an inner life, hunches, they don't go through life without understanding things. But the happy ones are unbearable!" Girlie was listening carefully. I felt she was interested in every word I told her and that she agreed (even if she wanted her torments to end with all her heart), because there is nothing sweeter than to talks ceaselessly about fortune and misfortune. Constantin Popescu came to us and thought he had to agree. I was not listening to him, but his words interrupted our conversation. He told us: "My mother died a month ago!" Cold, in an indifferent voice. How come Girlie was not shaking? How come she was not tense because of her comrade's calm? I told Girlie: "I'm sorry because I may never see you again!" "Don't exaggerate! You never know!" She was consoled so easily. So it was just an unimportant conversation. And this is more than just a personal humiliation, my sorrow gets such a simple response, it was also a thought on human shallowness: therefore this young lady carrying so much sadness accepts so easily to get away from the mountains and from the serious words that she does not have the opportunity to exchange too often. I tear myself away from the least important thing with numberless regrets. When we went back, on the bus, Girlie put her head on the shoulder of some man in the group (who was he? I had not even noticed him), and in their dark corner, I suspected all kinds of mysterious arrangements. When we arrived, I did not know whether to say good-bye or not. Girlie is very familiar with everybody. She is on first-name basis with all, laughs heartily with everybody, leans on people without any timidity, and sometimes she even sits on laps. Is this frailty? Because you can always imagine that she is at anybody's disposal, and I am naïve to go hairsplitting. Or perhaps this is the sign of a definitive tragedy. She is familiar with everybody, precisely because she is not interested in anybody. So you can come up with opposed interpretations for any gesture, when you are really interested in the issue. And asking such questions, is this not the sign of future jealousies? Two weeks later I went to the mountains again. This time there were just a few of us. A small relaxation on the summer vacation. I accepted immediately to join the others when I was first asked. We did not even know very well where we were going. And, after traveling by train, we began to climb for hours toward a famous rest house. Path among scenting trees and beautiful views all the time. And at the same time the fatigue, because our legs kept on walking, out of control. With interruptions, Girlie told me the story of her sad life in scattered episodes. "I married for love!" Love, that tempest in this little creature, transforming her childish naïveté and suddenly making her soul stern. Imagine the frenzy with which she gave her mouth to the newcomer, convinced she would never give it again to anybody else! Her rush to reveal all her mysteries and to accept all profanations! How she learned all sensualities! That joy! How she rushed to start all over again. Next to her people were being born and were dying, funerals and christenings, in the meantime they were tortured, begged for bread, discussed the fate of Europe, prosecuted wars and made peace, made discoveries and plans, or they masterfully combined words, sounds, and colors, and Girlie only had one concern: to take her clothes off, naked to coil around her lover in frenzy, and dizzy, to give her entire body, her entire soul, all of it. It is hard to imagine her fragile body at the time of passion. Her delicate legs, her thin body, her mouse face, still a woman. No miniature feeling the way you would expect by looking at her, but everything unleashed in full intensity. And now she is sitting beside me like a good girl speaking wisely, but she still remembers how she used to be intoxicated, she keeps that covered, but you can uncover it with any firm question, and in fact these things are being revealed all the time if you listen carefully, through the most innocent words. She looks like a doctor who is no longer embarrassed to call certain things by name, she is even insisting to prove she knows these things well, because if a doctor was bashful, people would say he is not a good doctor. Or perhaps she thinks this is normal, and only I think it is so important, because I am not used to it, and Girlie speaks without ostentation. I believe the inner toil is this (out of the few examples I have). For instance I asked: "And didn't X want to have kids?' This he "didn't want" suggests to me everything Girlie knows about love practices. But she utters this words, I feel this in her voice, also to relive, no matter how vaguely, some scene or some conversation, but without admitting, because she has decided to stop thinking about the past. "Then he started to cheat on me-" Girlie's jealousy. Her tortures restarting over and over again, the best excuse to boost the frenzy of love, even if love brings, through successive layers of ashes, the final decision to break everything. In a happy household, the routine is precise, and the couple slowly moves toward old age and death, without important events. Except that they grow fat, then they get on a diet, then they grow fat again. But jealousy brings fighting, ceaseless discussions, hatred, and destruction gestures, then making up, which is equally hot, and the final forgiveness, therefore the possibility that your companion gets into you for ever, so you will not be able to keep anything as a whole. No shame left in words, no hidden thought that you will not say out loud in anger. "He was cheating on me with all my friends." Could this general term prove that her jealousy was more than his actual faults? Because it is impossible that all her friends were subjugated by him, and I do not really believe Don Juan exists (even if Girlies still thinks he is "very handsome" and "very intelligent"). And then I wonder what kind of friends she had, that they did such things so easily? She always put up with all kinds of people around her, without discriminating, even at the time when she had a private life with the man she loved, the way she did in the mountains, where I thought this was because she was disappointed. He kept cheating on her, and after fighting, they would make it up, so she had no pride. She already had the instincts of an office worker, who accepts the boss' caprices without protesting, for fear that she might be dismissed. I would like a girlfriend mad with love, but proud at the same time, not accepting any humiliation, at any price, even if the price was definitive separation. Could I be mistaking life for literature? How can anyone be proud and break with the man she has looked at so many times with affection, watching him sleep, eat? "He liked parties. He was always having guests over. They'd smoke, drink, laugh. The atmosphere became intolerable to me, and I'd get out to walk the streets alone. When the weather was beautiful and a big moon was in the sky, I'd walk past lovers in my sadness. I'd go back at midnight. And after a while, after I left (how long? I wondered many times about that), they'd realize I was gone. When I came back he'd ask me questions, where I had been. I'd find some lie, and he'd accept it, and they did, and they were foolish, and he did, and he was so smart! How come he accepted my lies so easily, he never asked any more questions, not even when we were alone? He could understand the subtlest matters. He was probably no longer interested in me. I'd always take a book for my nightly walks! Why, I don't know, because it was too dark to read anyway, and I couldn't read. But I'd take a book along, like a friend, as if its covers comforted me." Girlie's walks in the night were so sad, with a book in her hand! However, perhaps I should not omit, for some Romantic reason, to point to the artificiality of this idea. How was that? She carried so much misery in her soul, and at the same time she found comfort in a book she did not even read? And perhaps she thought her gesture was interesting, now she is telling me about it to touch me even deeper. Or perhaps such artifices are essential to human nature, so we must accept them without any comment. Equally, we must not make fun of people who feel good when they put flowers on a grave, or when they tidy up some memories (throwing away old letters) before committing suicide."I worked from morning until late at night at the office to support us. He lazed off all day in the room. In the evening he wouldn't not even come to pick me up at the office. I'd find the room dirty. He had had guests. "I saw the dirty cups with black coffee, the crumbs on the table cloth. I was tired. After my mother died, the only person I loved in this world, I was unable to do anything for about a year. How could he still be interested in me?" Her monologue was interrupted by one of her comrades, who kept urging us to stop for a while for food. We did, and we relaxed, because we had been climbing all this time. We opened the parcels, we threw away the empty boxes, and it seemed to me that I was sifting ashes over Girlie's disasters. We began to walk again, and Girlie picked up her story: "So many painful scenes. Once I sent him to the seaside, because he was sick. When I had two days off, I went there to see him. He was with a woman. I began to scold him, but he told me I didn't understand him. Then he saw me off at the station the same day, saying he was planning a trip he couldn't give up." "He had no heart." "Yes, no heart at all." A long silence between us, full of inner moaning. "Soon after that, he wrote to me: he wanted a divorce for reasons that I was too middle-class to understand. Coincidence: I got a telegram at the same time saying my father had died. I didn't know what to think about first or what to do. I solved the problem. I went to the office as usual. And again we made it up, and again we separated. One day, suddenly, without having stronger reasons than the usual ones, I felt I couldn't take it anymore, and I wanted a divorce. And then the hesitations, the court dates, his complaints, his vows, his threats. And the arguments he used to retain something of me so it would hurt him less that moment (because he was frail and he was gonna find comfort real soon). He said: we'll be good friends. Is friendship possible between two people who have been in love?" Then Girlie fell silent, while we kept on climbing on that endless path. I am so sorry for all the trouble that man gave you, and you are so close to me because of that! We reached a tourist guest house, where they accommodated us as best they could. I was given a small room to share with Girlie. I was embarrassed thinking about bedtime, but Girlie solved all difficulties. She wore men's pajamas that made her look even smaller, and when I went in she seemed asleep. We woke up equally simply. The next evening we knew the drill. Sometimes, before going to sleep, I would read by the candle. It was as if we had known each other for ages. We picked flowers together (you get so close to somebody by picking flowers!), and we adorned our room. I looked for paintings, and I found an old portrait of the queen's in an attic. I told the landlord: "I brought a beautiful woman to my room." He smiled cunningly, as if he admitted that Girlie was ugly enough. Indeed, men do not like this type. They like big, plump women, with voluminous breasts. But I left the landlord's smile alone, as if I had been an accomplice. Was this not cowardice, which I will reiterate later, humiliating Girlie, something that will make me doubt her physical beauty, although she was so much to my taste? That cunning smile and other words also prove to me that people think I am more than just Girlie's friend. Girlie does not care about this, she does not hide anything, neither does she offer any explanations (why? I wondered in every possible way), but I was happy they thought so, even if I worried about Girlie's indifference. I felt closer to her that way, and it got us used to the idea that love was not excluded between us. Sometimes she was warm and friendly with me, but some other times she was cold and distant, not even absent. She talked equally lively with everybody (with me too when we were with the group), she seemed interested in that small talk, she laughed, she bantered, as if she knew nothing of the artifice next door. Then I thought love was impossible between us, and, in order to get some confidence, I used, instead of some comfortable memory, a dream I had dreamed long before I met her, one I had never thought much about, but which I remembered all of a sudden, fuzzy enough. In my dream I was very unhappy as usual, I did not know how to manage with all those complications which I had entered into due to who knows what destructive taste, and a girl having a figure like Girlie's came to me, stroke me, and saved me. The dream was weird, because that had never happened, and this is why I had never thought much about it. But now I am relying on it when I see Girlie's coldness, and I even choose it in such an important matter, although I could have more solid things to lean on, as my personality is imaginative enough. But perhaps I should not believe that her thought and the appearances matched exactly. Often I realized she figures out people very well, although she puts up with them, she listens to them carefully, and she never complains about their superficiality. Once she told me: "Did you see Constantin Popescu? He was talking about his mother's death as if it was some chicken." And I thought she did not notice anything. Some other time she said: "You're always complicating every sensation uselessly!" So, she reached conclusions after spending just a few days with someone, the same conclusions I reached following long doubts. I answered: "It's impossible not to complicate something you're interested in." One day we were going down the mountain slope very tired. Everybody was silent, so they could not notice the reasons for my sad silence. Girlie had told me: "You're either the last or the first one." I was thinking: now I can be certain she does not care about me. Girlie was walking ahead of me, in her boy's clothes, with her low-heel boots, her naked knees, and her hands in her pockets. She suddenly slowed down. I thought: If I was conceited I would believe this is an attempt to get close to me. But I knew this was just an illusion I was indulging in, like when you dream of being rich, laughing at yourself at the same time. I never thought anything good about myself. Girlie just looked tired, and then she fixed one of her boots, which explained her delay. But unexpectedly she turned to me, she stretched out her child-like hand, and we continued to walk holding hands for a while, while a great joy filled up my soul. Embarrassed, I withdrew my hand as if by accident, and I viewed her gesture as an accident (because I had given up the first opportunity for us to get closer, which was something I coveted so). Perhaps due to shyness, but also due to fear: I was afraid she would withdraw her hand first (she would have done this, no question!), and that would have annihilated all that joy she had given to me. Girlie would often scold me over my negligent clothing, and that made me sad and happy at the same time: I was glad that she was concerned, but I knew she had learned to notice such things from the other man. It was her idea to notice dust on my clothes, but it is not the same thing when she says your tie knot is badly made. And perhaps these small claims actually prove an excessively dominating spirit, only appearing as miniature because I am still a stranger to her. The same suspicion, that her jealousy was stronger than his faults. She said to me ironically that her friends were telling her during the divorce: "You shouldn't get a divorce; that's the way men are, unfaithful, but come to think of it, they are good." This proves how girls think, they just want to stay married at any cost. Or perhaps this proves her friends knew her exclusive thinking. I was enormously happy when she controlled me, it made me feel closer to her. I enjoyed being obedient, and I was even happy when other people made fun of my obedience, because it was only the beginning, and I was having fun playing a new role. I know how I love independence: I run away when I see the slightest attempt at obvious control. "I'm being tortured, Girlie, I miss every second that goes away, when the story ends." "There you go again complicating things. Enjoy the moment, we'll see about tomorrow." And, before leaving, she told me melancholically: "I suddenly realized you're leaving. I thought it was gonna last forever." I thought: I knew the day we arrived, and it hurt. I can see how perfectly Girlie notices everything around her, which is rare with women and which I appreciate greatly, although this somehow impairs freshness and spontaneity; at the same time I remember she learned to notice things or she developed this talent in her experience with another man. It is amazing how accurately she judges other people, and then I feel even more hurt because she puts up with them, and she is even friendly with them. She always knows exactly what she has to do, she got used to planning things precisely, being alone or with a man who did not help her for a long time. I saw her making plans to take the train very fast (she had to change a few trains), which is rare in women, as they usually panic when they travel. She knew exactly how to take care of her health, the way the doctor told her – that doctor she went to see when she decided to do so without being sick. She ate, went to bed, and took her medicines at specific times. Sometimes when I look at her I feel terribly sorry for her, she is so fragile, she needs protection so badly, she does not believe or trust that anyone would do that for her. A beaten dog that runs away when somebody tries to stroke it. She will use the same precision to examine me, but will she be able to do crazy things, dangerous but charming, no matter what the threats may be? Girlie's intellectual education leaves a lot to be desired. She has read little, has not had time to read after spending 10 hours a day at work, and then there was nobody to advise her. When we were talking about books, she asked me unexpectedly: what do you think about Rachilde? Of course, at the beginning of our literary conversations, it is not appropriate to talk about Rachilde, and I cannot even say much on this subject. But she understands everything explained to her, and if she has a different opinion, she will say so, but not stupidly. For a start, I gave her Le bal du compte d'Orgel by Radiguet, a subtle book, probably written when he was obsessed with Dominique. Then Girlie spoke to me about this book without me helping her at all, with an amazing attention for details and good taste. Will this book be the first of the countless books I will make her read later? When it comes to music, she has some favorites: she likes Italian music (her husband was Italian and he influenced her). German music seems complicated and confused, but when she plays an Italian romanza, she vibrates. It is charming when two music lovers vibrate together to some tune, without exclamations, without words. With Girlie, I forgot I was exigent, that I have only felt complete happiness when listening to a Beethoven quartet, for instance the andante in Opus 127. I felt deeply emotional listening to arias by Verdi or Puccini. In fact, I can see her literary shortcomings or dubious musical tastes without any sorrow, even savoring them to a certain extent, mostly because I see she can be easily educated. When I was a teenager, I got angry whenever I saw anybody like this, I would mock and get bored with the most charming girl, whom I would immediately call stupid. And now not only that I accept such shortcomings, but I even savor them. Could I have evolved so much in my opinions about people, and could experience and mishaps have taught me to be tolerant? Is my love for Girlie (without any connection to her literary-artistic judgment) urging me to be like that? Now I have fun when she says something stupid, and I am happy, as if this was proof of great wisdom, or as if I had discovered an unexpected, bantering trait, which still complicates me. When I am with Girlie I appear as a man making fun of a kid who pronounces some words wrongly. She told me: "I don't trust anyone!" The result of her experience. Or perhaps, also a question for me. Her experience creates disquietude. She consoles me, proving her spiritual depth (how much have I evolved, how old have I gotten that I have such consolations, when all I used to dream of was jeunes filles en fleurs?). But in exchange this experience has taught her never to love absolutely again, because life is too serious, you have to calculate everything wisely. I said: "You don't have to trust me, I'm a victim of my inner caprices. I'm always unhappy, vacillating; I indulge in all the disasters, and I can be of no use to a girlie who needs support, and a leader." These words will never make a woman go away, no matter how sincere you are. On the contrary, they bring her closer, as if it was not so horrid. In fact, knowing this perfectly well, I spoke those words. They were true, but was I not playing a farce by using my solitude for other purposes? Tortured people are cunning. They make a profit out of their torture, and in fact they would not give it up, in spite of the fact that the anguish is authentic. She sat by a foamy river one warm afternoon. I saw her sleeping, and I wandered through the woods, or I looked at the water, tirelessly running between pebbles. Very late I went back, and she woke up. She said: "I felt so good!" Her words, falling on my solitude, made me suffer intolerably for a few moments. Sometimes I wonder: suffering, so early? Should I just consider this a slight emotion, when I see myself tortured by all means? What does this torture still need to become veritable? Events for me to fantasize about, because since there has been nothing between me and Girlie, except for some random word, that only created the atmosphere, rather than a subject. However, we live in the flesh, and flesh alone can make you feel full pain. A kiss engages your whole being, the way a mere friendly conversation cannot. I think my feeling now is some kind of a child's toy, trying to imitate an adult thing. A delicate, tiny train, which has in it all the equipment of a real train, though. Or a graceful doll, with a kinky smile. Or a relief map, perfectly scaling down the images of waters and mountains. For in my thoughts about Girlie I already find everything, even if only in miniature: jealousy, and love, and pity, and spite, and the desire to punish, to get angry, and to make it up, all in turmoil. Perhaps my emotions will grow, will become cataclysms, will flow in torrents, will become water falls, and will flood everything, like a minuscule stream getting inflated, transformed, and becoming a huge river; or perhaps that little stream will gracefully flow on little pebbles, will flicker tortured, like a dwindling light, and will disappear into the ground, only leaving behind the poetic memory of a short-lived tremor, which I will sometimes look back fondly on, watching the moon in her mysterious travels. But what about the way she treats me, can I draw any conclusion about her from that? Her words and gestures are all so wiry, that they can already be interpreted in opposed ways, which is not her fault. Perhaps this new love still lacks precise contours, or perhaps my nature cannot admit definitive conclusions, when it is really interested in something. Out of this inner game, which began its tireless movement on the occasion of Girlie, I could draw conclusions that I care for her more than I think I do, in spite of the fact that logically, calculating how long we have known each other, I do not believe that is possible. The many reverse questions I ask have no intellectual value of their own, they start out from some psychological curiosity, each bringing with it joy, or more accurately suffering. A delicate game, but, if it continues, it will get gigantic proportions. A short-lived foreplay, including all the themes that will be developed in the ensuing work of art. Sometimes such a foreplay has a life of its own. One night out of the seven we were to spend together, I found Girlie awake. "You know what I've been thin
