Vag shoved off the bottom step of Lamont, wheeled around the corner, and headed for Mass. Avenue. Behind him he heard the whisper of raincoats and the echo of two pairs of footsteps. One of them was wearing high heels. She was laughing comfortably and mumbling just low enough so that he couldn't understand what she was saying.

All of a sudden Vag felt alone. It was unpleasant. He dug his heels into the macadam.

Dammit.

All right, so I call a girl at Radcliffe. The movie at the UT stinks. You go to town and already it's a big production. All I want to do is throw a little talk around--casual talk. And private. Private. Why the hell can't I? It's my room isn't it? I pay rent on the hole. It would be pretty nice to find a girl who could listen to Brunis records with you. All right--so that's not all. So you smooch a little. They do it in the best repressed families. Or hasn't the Dean heard . . . .

He pulled up short to keep from ramming a parking meter and headed across the tracks into the light from the store front. The magazine rack was right in front of the door.

"Good House . . . Dime Defective . . . Avon Books. All the Girls We Loved, by de Percds, a new Hemingway. Two bits. What the hell."

He flattened the quarter under his palm; it resounded too loudly against the counter. He hurried out, the book in his pocket, back cover out. He turned towards the houses, his stride just a little longer than normal. By the time he got to his entry he was almost running. The door slammed shut and Vag rocketed into the arm chair. He lit a cigarette and began to read.

It wasn't very satisfactory.