May 17 — Almost morning and I can't fall asleep. I've got to understand what happened to me last night at the concert.
The evening started out well enough. The Mall at Central Park had filled up early,
and Alice and I had to pick our way among the couples stretched out on the grass.
Finally, far back from the path, we found an unused tree where—out of the range of lamplight—
the only evidence of other couples was the protesting female laughter and the glow of lit cigarettes.
"This will be fine," she said. "No reason to be right on top of the orchestra."
"What's that they're playing now?" I asked. "Debussy's La Mer. Do you like it?"
I settled down beside her. "I don't know much about this kind of music. I have to think about it."
"Don't think about it," she whispered. "Feel it. Let it sweep over you like the sea without trying to understand."
She lay back on the grass and turned her face in the direction of the music. I had no way of knowing what she expected of me.
This was far from the clear lines of problem-solving and the systematic acquisition of knowledge.
I kept telling myself that the sweating palms, the tightness in my chest, the desire to put my arms around her were merely biochemical reactions.
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