Let's wait and see. Be patient." She was making sense, but I wasn't letting myself listen.
"The other night—" I choked out, "You don't know how much I looked forward to that date.
I was out of my mind wondering how to behave, what to say, wanting to make the best impression,
and terrified I might say something to make you angry."
"You didn't make me angry. I was flattered." "Then, when can I see you again?"
"I have no right to let you get involved." "But I am involved!" I shouted,
and then seeing people turn to look, I lowered my voice until it trembled with anger.
"I'm a person—a man—and I can't live with just books and tapes and electronic mazes.
You say, 'see other women.' How can I when I don't know any other women?
Something inside is burning me up, and all I know is it makes me think of you.
I'm in the middle of a page and I see your face on it—not blurred like those in my past, but clear and alive.
I touch the page and your face is gone and I want to tear the book apart and throw it away."
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