“She was really upset, Lauren,” Roxanne’s bored, plays with her scarf, eats fries.

“I can imagine. I have to talk with her,” I say. “This is terrible.”

“Terrible? The worst,” Roxanne says.

“The worst,” I agree.

“I hate it when this happens,” she says. “I hate it.”

We finish the fries, which are pretty good today. “It’s awful, I know,” I nod.

“Awful,” she says. More agreement. “I’m beginning to think romance is a foreign concept.”

Ralph Larson. Philosophy teacher walks by with tray looking for a place to sit followed by my printmaking teacher. He looks at Roxanne and says, “Hey baby,” and winks. Roxanne smiles big—“Hi, Ralph”—and she’s looking now at me, eyes saucers, still smiling big. I notice she’s gained weight. She grabs my wrist. “He’s so handsome, Lauren,” she breathes, pants, at me.

“Never invite a teacher to your room,” I tell her.

“He can come by anytime,” she says, still squeezing.

“Let go,” I’m telling her. “Roxanne, he’s married.”

“I don’t care, so what?” She rolls her eyes up. “Everyone knows he slept with Brigid McCauley.”

“He’ll never leave his wife for you. It would screw up his tenure review.”

I laugh. She doesn’t. And I slept with that guy Tim who got Sara pregnant and what if it was me who was getting an abortion next Wednesday? What if … Ketchup on the plate, smeared, make unavoidable connection. I wouldn’t let it happen. Judy comes back. Next table: sad-looking boy is making a sandwich and wrapping it in a napkin for hippie girlfriend who isn’t on the food plan. Then it’s the Square walking toward the table. Whirl around and tell Judy to tell me a joke, anything.

“What? Huh?” she says.

“Talk to me, pretend you’re talking to me. Tell me a joke. Hurry. Anything.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just do it! There’s someone I don’t want to talk to.” Point with my eyes.

“Oh yeah,” she starts, we’ve played this before, warming up, “that’s why, it all, you know, happened….”

“That’s why?” I shrug. “But I thought, you know that, it happened…”

“Yeah, that’s why … uh, see, do…” she says.

“Oh, ha ha ha ha ha…” I laugh. It sounds fake. I feel ugly.

“Hi, Lauren,” Voice Behind Me says. Stop laughing, casually look up and he’s wearing shorts. It’s October and the boy is wearing shorts and has a New York Times business section under one arm. “Is there room here?” Gestures at our table where he’s about to put his tray down. Roxanne nods.

“No!” I look around. “I mean … no. We’re expecting someone. Sorry.”

“Okay.” He stands there, smiling.

Leave, leave, leave. Use ESP … anything.

“Sorry,” I say again.

“Can we talk later?” he asks me. Leave. L-E-A-V-E. “I’ll be in the computer room.”

“Sure.”

He says “Bye” and walks aways.

I look for another cigarette and feel a little shitty, but why? What does he expect? I think about Victor, then look up, and ask for a match and say “Don’t—”

“Who’s he?” they both ask.

“—ask. No one,” I say. “Give me a match.”

“You … didn’t,” Judy says, cocking her head.

“I … did,” I mimic the head movement. “Oh boy.”

“He’s a Freshman. Congratulations. Your first?”

“I didn’t say I was interested, dahling.”

“He’s got such a nice ass,” Roxanne says.

“I’m sure Rupert would love to hear you say that,” I tell her.

“I have a feeling now that Rupert would agree with me,” Roxanne says sadly.

And that’s a weird thing to say and I wonder what she means. It reminds me of something I don’t want to be reminded of. I tell Roxanne to give me a call and tell Judy that I’ll be in my studio. Go back to my room and decide to skip video class and take a bath instead. Clean the tub out first. Dorm’s quiet. Everyone at classes or maybe still sleeping. Great, hot water. Bring a pad and some charcoal and my box and put some Rickie Lee Jones on. Smoke a joint and lay there. Tried calling Victor last night when I came back from Steve’s room, crying, couldn’t stop, but there was no answer at the house in Rome he said he would be staying at on this date. Remember my last night with him. Touch myself. Think of Victor. I hate Rickie Lee Jones. Turn the radio on instead. Wash my hair. I turn the volume up. Bad station. Top 40. Static. But then I hear a song that I remember listening to when I was seeing Victor. It was a dumb song and I didn’t like it at the time but it suits the moment now and makes me cry. I want to write this feeling down, or draw it out, but then I feel like that would make the whole thing seem impure and artificial. I decide it will only cheapen the feeling and so I lay there in the white brightness and think of memories the song brings me. Of Victor. Victor’s hands. Victor’s leopard-skin pants. Ripped army boots and … his pubic hair? His arms. Watching him shave. At the Palladium, how handsome he looked in a tuxedo. Making love in his apartment. Brown eyes. What else? He starts to fade. I get scared. I get scared because while I’m laying here it suddenly seems as if he doesn’t exist anymore. It seems as if only the song that’s playing does, not Victor. It’s almost as if I had made him up last summer.