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Caitlin emailed yesterday. I had been thinking about her these last two days, that we had once—twice kissed: on Mendy’s balcony and in her apartment in Graduate Court. Kelli lived in Graduate Court. Maybe Reetika, too. The first time I kissed Caitlin was at a party where I felt dejected because Bess was dancing the night away | tripping the light fantastic | waving magic fingers with Bill and Rob. I was too proper to look (and, plus, we had a date the next night), but apparently Bess’s boobs were flying everywhere. Bess is one of two women whose breasts to me were perfect.1 The other one smokes.

Anyhow, enigmatic elusive Caitlin emailed and I thought about her dating the Gordon. Smart guy. Not smart enough to know humanists make things up, or either humanists understand this about themselves. Heck, even Rorty knows. The last time I saw Caitlin was in NYC while eating lemon-grass crickets. I was too inebriated and they too cold for me to distinguish. I recall my mouth was spiny. As we walked to an Irish beer hall to meet (or go along with) Tony’s friends, I had fantasies of us making out.

While I wasn’t serious about then and there, I was saying in my sorry stupid way I’d always thought her beautiful, that I was curious. Friends is good, too. When I returned to Ohio, I emailed her but the mail just, sort of . . . sat there.

She says she lives in Dallas. end of article

1 There are other aspects of a woman more compelling than her breasts, and there are many kinds of perfect.