her, shielding her from the ground with
his body.
They rolled twice, and Ruth
looked up into Graham's face in the semi-darkness, as close as it had
ever been to hers. There didn't seem to be any great rush to catch
the hay wagon on his part. She knew there wasn't on hers.
He touched her face and hair.
"You're beautiful," he
told her.
The words went to her head like
wine.
"It's the moonlight,"
she told him.
"What moonlight?"
"Well then, it's the
moonshine."
He laughed. "I haven't
touched a drop tonight. It's just you. That's all."
"You're beautiful," he
repeated. Then he kissed her. Just gently.
Afterward, he pulled her to her
feet and, taking her hand, ran with her toward the wagon. But by
that time, the wagon was too far away to catch.
They slowed to a walk.
"Never mind," he said.
"There's a bonfire after and hot chocolate and marshmallows.
We'll walk back to the house and be there for the bonfire before
anyone else gets there. We'll cut across the field and beat them
back."
"Won't people wonder where
we went?" Ruth asked.
"Let 'em," Graham
said.
They walked in silence, hand in
hand, heading for the lights from the windows of the farm house and
the spot of wavering light that was the bonfire.
When the rest had joined them
around the bonfire, in spite of the mug of hot chocolate Ruth cupped
in her hands, she couldn't stop shivering. When her teeth began to
chatter, Graham noticed and slid an arm around her shoulders. No one
seemed to be observing them.
"You're freezing," he
said. "Take my coat."
"No, I'm not cold.
Honestly!"
"Oh yeah! You're not
c-c-c-cold! That's not very believable."
"It's not the cold,"
Ruth confessed.
"Oh!" Graham said,
getting it. But he put his coat around her shoulders anyway.
*
* *
A
complaint we women hear constantly from men is that they can't
understand us. Implicit in the complaint lies the belief that women
(not a woman, but women ,
taken as a mass) should be understandable – that there is
surely a formula if only there were some Einstein who could unlock
it.
The hope of a formula is a
forlorn one. There are few constants in deciphering the woman
question, but there are a few. The first one to learn and commit to
memory is that there is no formula.
The inherent problem lies in the
fact that women are all different. Not only are women different from
men (obviously!), but every woman is different from every other
woman. And every woman is different from herself ... just as a river
may be the same river for thousands of years but the water flowing
over the same rock is never the same water from one moment to the
next.
We women find the men just as
hard to understand. It's the fact of the patterns themselves, the
fact of the Man-formulas, that baffles us. Humans and formulas, by
their very natures, seem as incompatible to women as rivers and
formulas.
There is one predictability to
be counted on in women, however. I've never met an exception. This
predictability is a commonality that unites the human race. This is
a rock over which all our rivers flow.
We all have a craving for
beauty.
Yet those cravings take
different forms. Men crave to have what is beautiful. Women crave
to be what is beautiful.
And that fact may be the closest
thing to the Woman-formula that any Einstein will ever discover.
*
* *
The lighter-than-air feeling
stayed with Ruth for days afterward.
Pulling her hair up for work,
she couldn't help examining her face a little closer in the
rust-spotted mirror of her bathroom's medicine chest the morning
after the hay ride. What had Graham seen to call beautiful?
Oh, stop
thinking about it. It's just the kind of thing a fellow says when he
wants to kiss a girl because she happens to be there and he thinks he
should, she told herself, but she couldn't get her thoughts to behave. She
kept on with her examination, turning this way and that, trying to
see herself from all angles. What did Graham see when he looked at
her?
There was an ugly kind
his body.
They rolled twice, and Ruth
looked up into Graham's face in the semi-darkness, as close as it had
ever been to hers. There didn't seem to be any great rush to catch
the hay wagon on his part. She knew there wasn't on hers.
He touched her face and hair.
"You're beautiful," he
told her.
The words went to her head like
wine.
"It's the moonlight,"
she told him.
"What moonlight?"
"Well then, it's the
moonshine."
He laughed. "I haven't
touched a drop tonight. It's just you. That's all."
"You're beautiful," he
repeated. Then he kissed her. Just gently.
Afterward, he pulled her to her
feet and, taking her hand, ran with her toward the wagon. But by
that time, the wagon was too far away to catch.
They slowed to a walk.
"Never mind," he said.
"There's a bonfire after and hot chocolate and marshmallows.
We'll walk back to the house and be there for the bonfire before
anyone else gets there. We'll cut across the field and beat them
back."
"Won't people wonder where
we went?" Ruth asked.
"Let 'em," Graham
said.
They walked in silence, hand in
hand, heading for the lights from the windows of the farm house and
the spot of wavering light that was the bonfire.
When the rest had joined them
around the bonfire, in spite of the mug of hot chocolate Ruth cupped
in her hands, she couldn't stop shivering. When her teeth began to
chatter, Graham noticed and slid an arm around her shoulders. No one
seemed to be observing them.
"You're freezing," he
said. "Take my coat."
"No, I'm not cold.
Honestly!"
"Oh yeah! You're not
c-c-c-cold! That's not very believable."
"It's not the cold,"
Ruth confessed.
"Oh!" Graham said,
getting it. But he put his coat around her shoulders anyway.
*
* *
A
complaint we women hear constantly from men is that they can't
understand us. Implicit in the complaint lies the belief that women
(not a woman, but women ,
taken as a mass) should be understandable – that there is
surely a formula if only there were some Einstein who could unlock
it.
The hope of a formula is a
forlorn one. There are few constants in deciphering the woman
question, but there are a few. The first one to learn and commit to
memory is that there is no formula.
The inherent problem lies in the
fact that women are all different. Not only are women different from
men (obviously!), but every woman is different from every other
woman. And every woman is different from herself ... just as a river
may be the same river for thousands of years but the water flowing
over the same rock is never the same water from one moment to the
next.
We women find the men just as
hard to understand. It's the fact of the patterns themselves, the
fact of the Man-formulas, that baffles us. Humans and formulas, by
their very natures, seem as incompatible to women as rivers and
formulas.
There is one predictability to
be counted on in women, however. I've never met an exception. This
predictability is a commonality that unites the human race. This is
a rock over which all our rivers flow.
We all have a craving for
beauty.
Yet those cravings take
different forms. Men crave to have what is beautiful. Women crave
to be what is beautiful.
And that fact may be the closest
thing to the Woman-formula that any Einstein will ever discover.
*
* *
The lighter-than-air feeling
stayed with Ruth for days afterward.
Pulling her hair up for work,
she couldn't help examining her face a little closer in the
rust-spotted mirror of her bathroom's medicine chest the morning
after the hay ride. What had Graham seen to call beautiful?
Oh, stop
thinking about it. It's just the kind of thing a fellow says when he
wants to kiss a girl because she happens to be there and he thinks he
should, she told herself, but she couldn't get her thoughts to behave. She
kept on with her examination, turning this way and that, trying to
see herself from all angles. What did Graham see when he looked at
her?
There was an ugly kind
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