She drives me. . .

I looked in Sam's eyes (which glowed green amid the darkness), then down at the keys. I let my gaze rest there.

'You don't have a license,' I said.

'Yeah,' she said, a dangerous smile creeping its way across her face. 'So?'

'Just commenting, that's all.' I crossed my arms, pointed one foot toward home.

After tossing her hair copiously into the growing wind, Sam crept closer. . .closer. . .her lips coming nearly to rest on my cheek. 'It'll be more fun this way, Alford,' crooned she. 'C'mon.'

Why do they always have to call me Alford? I thought. And why does it always make me want to accompany them, without delay, to the nearest bower?

'Have you ever driven before, Samantha?'

'Once,' she said, torridly, arching her back and thrusting her chest forward, as if the mere question brought her near orgasm.

'What happened?'

'I hit a mailbox, scattered wild turkeys and a clump of hedgehogs, and ended up in Mr. Hanson's living room.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' (Once again near climax.) 'He would have called the police,' moaned she, 'but I pleaded with him, and we ended it with me doing him a nice. . .um. . .favor.'

'Let me guess,' said I, '--you bought him a lifetime supply of semisweet chocolate?'

'Exactly. Now, c'mon, Alfie'--quickly resuming orgasm mode and fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly--

'Let's go.'

Midnight at noon

Samantha cut me off about three-quarters down Nottingham. She reached her arm over my shoulder and grabbed my torso. I started--but the initial terror quickly turned into something else.

'Hi.'

'Hey.'

Turning around, I drew the collar of the flannel around my neck. 'Cold weather, huh?'

'Yes. . .'

'And?'

Sam looked at me with her clear green eyes. 'You look really handsome with your collar turned up like that.'

'Why, thank you. You look sexy in those--'

'What?'

'Never mind,' said I, distant. 'So are we going to the room?'

'No. . .I have a better idea.' And, as the wind whipped the locusts overhead, amid this night-dark afternoon in which raindrops now began to fall all around us, Samantha reached into her pocket and, with a quiet, conspiratorial expression, brought a group of keys to my face.

A change of wind

'No,' said I. 'You're wrong. I'm reading this book for The Individual and Society, not for a shield as you insinuate. And, even more important, I don't regret turning Sharon down.'

Smiths seemed for a few moments to scrutinize my countenance for a possible absence of sanity. Finding no evidence of this, he looked away.

'I mean, it surprised me at the time, sure,' admitted I, 'but there was a reason for it.'

In the back of my mind, I said, 'Yeah. . .a five-foot-seven, long-haired, irresistible reason.' To Smiths I just smiled.

The continuance of the day brought darker skies, colder winds, and an ominous horizon. By seventh period the mountain-ashes were beginning to whip against the school. My trigonometry teacher didn't seem to notice, though; he was seventy and nearly deaf.

'Hey, Terry. . .do you have an extra windbreaker?' I said, twisting around in my seat.

'No, sorry, my boyfriend's using it.'

'Just my luck.'

Sudden storms bring cold walks; and, when the seventh period bell rang, I handed my assignment to the teacher, grabbed some textbooks from my locker, and set off quickly for home. The autumn breeze raised goosebumps on my arms, and I drew my flannel shirt around my torso to keep warm.