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Everything about you seemed like a magnet. The house you rented with five other girls was the spawning of a new spirit. The five guys and I who rented a house a few miles away were all weird, but we were weird in a boisterous individual way that seemed sure to die as soon as school was over. There was a unity to your weirdness that went beyond all eating out of the same refrigerator, vegetarian communal meals, and heavy political raps, which were admittedly all new to me. I and most of my friends agreed with you point by point all down the line, but there was something beyond the points that was very different. In any event, I didn’t waste much time hopping aboard to try to figure out just what this difference was all about.

Our first date, if you can call it that, came out of one of my increasingly frequent and doubtless unsubtle wooing visits to your house. We were all having a quiet cup of tea.

Everything seemed peaceful and nice. You went into the kitchen and suddenly all hell broke loose. Someone hadn’t washed the dishes. Your voice was short and clipped, your face set, your eyes filled with total disgust. Everyone scurried around meekly, trying to stay out of your way. It was an impressive show.

During a brief lull in the storm, while you were just sitting on the couch glowering, I said weakly, without much hope, “How’d you like to go to a movie?”

The absurdity of my invitation was compounded by the fact that it was about nine-thirty at night. You just looked at me. Your look seemed to soften a bit, from hate to gentle contempt. I guess the humor of it got to you some. “Shit, I don’t know,” I started again. “I just thought you might want to get out of here for a bit. Maybe there’s an all-night movie in Philly or maybe we could just go out for a hamburger or something.”

“Ya,” you said, or words to that effect indicating a bare minimum of acceptance.

“Well,” said I, feeling not at all sure you’d accepted or what you’d accepted, “we’ll go to my place and pick up some money.”

“OK,” said you, and we went out and got into trusty old Car Car.

On the way, Car Car was filled with dead silence. “Do you really want to go to a movie?” I finally ventured.

“No,” you said, “not really.”

“OK, how about a hamburger?”

“That’s all right, I’m really not hungry.”

“OK, I’ve got some beer at the house. It’s really a pretty pleasant place to sit around. At least you’ll get out of your house for a while.” Silence.

“Well, here we are,” I said, trying to be cheerful. You didn’t say a word. You just got out of the car and walked in with precision and dignity. Well, I thought to myself, feeling more and more like an ass, is she really that pissed off about unwashed dishes? Does she want to be here at all? You gave me so little to go on.

“Want a beer?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m going to have one,” as I opened the fridge. “Some milk? Maybe some tea?”

Just a shake of your head. You just sat there looking at me. The contempt had pretty much left your eyes, thank God. But it was replaced with an aloof penetration that was equally if not more disconcerting.

With so few clues, I was on my own. Maybe I just imagined it, but I started to see something else in your eyes, a plea: Try to understand why I can’t give you more clues.

Then you seemed to be bordering on tears. I put my arm around you and tried to kiss you softly, trying to tell you there was nothing to be afraid of, that you were safe from whatever was haunting you, that I liked you, that I wanted you to relax.

You avoided my kiss, half buried your face in my chest, and hugged me softly, not moving, not breathing. I stopped breathing too. We stayed like that for what seemed like forever. I tried again to kiss you. Our mouths just brushed and you buried your head again and hugged me a little tighter. Almost afraid you might break, I gently moved your head back from my chest, stroking your hair. I smiled and you smiled back.

In your eyes, I thought I saw a promise that some day, but not now and not to be pushed, you