doorstep. Sometimes they followed and apologized, sometimes they only slammed the door she had left hanging open, and pulled out of the driveway with screeching tires. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She stopped going out on Saturday-night dates.
10
One bright fall day (Mira was nineteen) a tall, gawky boy named Lanny, who was in her course in the Structure of Music, approached her as she was walking across campus, and began to talk. She had noticed him in class: he seemed intelligent, he knew something about music. They talked briefly, and suddenly, gracelessly, he asked her to go out. She was surprised. She looked at his eyes. They were shining at her. She liked his awkwardness, his lack of polish: it was such a change from the hollow suave manner adopted by most of the young men. She agreed to go.
As she was dressing on the evening of their date, she noticed that she was excited, that her heart was pounding, that her eyes had a special shine. Why? Although she had liked his manner, there was nothing extraordinary about him, was there? She felt as if she were falling in love, but couldn’t understand why or how. During the evening they spent together, she found herself deferring to him, smiling at all his demands, seeing his face as beautiful. When he brought her home that night, she turned to him and when he kissed her, she kissed him back, and the kiss penetrated her whole body. Terrified, she pulled away; but he knew. He let her go, but two nights later they went out again.
Lanny came to her with a kind of intensity. He had a wild imagination; he was disconnected, gay, unbound. He had been spoiled – totally accepted, totally approved – by his family, and he was a free spirit, full of gaiety and assurance and eccentricities. He told her that when he woke up in the morning, he immediately began to sing, that he would take his guitar with him into the toilet and sit there, singing and playing, while he defecated. She was astounded, being herself one of those people who have to drag themselves up in the morning in a silent house where such behavior would have been seen as an insane disturbance of the peace. He was like that all the time. He would collect people, call her suddenly, come pick her up, and a whole car load of them would be off to a tavern, someone’s house, Greenwich Village. Wherever they were, he was restless, he wanted to be off again, to get a pizza, to play some music, to visit someone he had just thought of but who was suddenly his best friend. He kept her out all night, and he rarely pressed her sexually. She was enchanted.She felt herself stodgy beside him, bound by obligations like papers due, a job to go to, books to be read – in short, responsibilities. He shrugged off such trivia; it was not, he said, what life was all about. Life was about joy. She leaned toward him, yearning; she wanted to be like him, but could not. So she lived his life and her own too. She stayed out all night, night after night, and slept much of the day, but she did her work as well. She grew quite haggard and tired, and she began to feel resentment because it seemed to her that Lanny only wanted an audience. He grew chilly when she tried to participate, when she jumped up into the singing group and stood with her arms around his (and she believed her) friends. For him, she was the smile of approval, the applause, the admiring gleam.
They were rarely alone at night, because when she had to leave, everyone would pile into the car with them and drive her home. Or he would get too drunk to drive, and someone else would drive her home. But on the few occasions when he did take her alone, and would put his arms around her in the driveway, she would turn to him fully, loving to kiss him, loving to hold him and have him hold her. The impulses in her body no longer frightened her; she felt ecstatic. She loved the way he smelled, not like most of the boys, of shaving lotion or cologne, but of himself. She loved his
10
One bright fall day (Mira was nineteen) a tall, gawky boy named Lanny, who was in her course in the Structure of Music, approached her as she was walking across campus, and began to talk. She had noticed him in class: he seemed intelligent, he knew something about music. They talked briefly, and suddenly, gracelessly, he asked her to go out. She was surprised. She looked at his eyes. They were shining at her. She liked his awkwardness, his lack of polish: it was such a change from the hollow suave manner adopted by most of the young men. She agreed to go.
As she was dressing on the evening of their date, she noticed that she was excited, that her heart was pounding, that her eyes had a special shine. Why? Although she had liked his manner, there was nothing extraordinary about him, was there? She felt as if she were falling in love, but couldn’t understand why or how. During the evening they spent together, she found herself deferring to him, smiling at all his demands, seeing his face as beautiful. When he brought her home that night, she turned to him and when he kissed her, she kissed him back, and the kiss penetrated her whole body. Terrified, she pulled away; but he knew. He let her go, but two nights later they went out again.
Lanny came to her with a kind of intensity. He had a wild imagination; he was disconnected, gay, unbound. He had been spoiled – totally accepted, totally approved – by his family, and he was a free spirit, full of gaiety and assurance and eccentricities. He told her that when he woke up in the morning, he immediately began to sing, that he would take his guitar with him into the toilet and sit there, singing and playing, while he defecated. She was astounded, being herself one of those people who have to drag themselves up in the morning in a silent house where such behavior would have been seen as an insane disturbance of the peace. He was like that all the time. He would collect people, call her suddenly, come pick her up, and a whole car load of them would be off to a tavern, someone’s house, Greenwich Village. Wherever they were, he was restless, he wanted to be off again, to get a pizza, to play some music, to visit someone he had just thought of but who was suddenly his best friend. He kept her out all night, and he rarely pressed her sexually. She was enchanted.She felt herself stodgy beside him, bound by obligations like papers due, a job to go to, books to be read – in short, responsibilities. He shrugged off such trivia; it was not, he said, what life was all about. Life was about joy. She leaned toward him, yearning; she wanted to be like him, but could not. So she lived his life and her own too. She stayed out all night, night after night, and slept much of the day, but she did her work as well. She grew quite haggard and tired, and she began to feel resentment because it seemed to her that Lanny only wanted an audience. He grew chilly when she tried to participate, when she jumped up into the singing group and stood with her arms around his (and she believed her) friends. For him, she was the smile of approval, the applause, the admiring gleam.
They were rarely alone at night, because when she had to leave, everyone would pile into the car with them and drive her home. Or he would get too drunk to drive, and someone else would drive her home. But on the few occasions when he did take her alone, and would put his arms around her in the driveway, she would turn to him fully, loving to kiss him, loving to hold him and have him hold her. The impulses in her body no longer frightened her; she felt ecstatic. She loved the way he smelled, not like most of the boys, of shaving lotion or cologne, but of himself. She loved his
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