He would be a strength for me, a crutch for when I’m weak. I’d feel better with a bigger one, stronger than myself. I told him that his shirt looked nice, matched his hair and arms, because he’d chosen it for me; his face he could not change. I asked about his interests and learned of bourgeoisie. I asked what could be done and discovered native thought. Strange, he thought I’d looked so good in his Van-Heusen forty-four never mentioning the dress I’d trod the malls to find. He told me that the time was good, sensitive I’d been. But all I really did for him was not to interrupt. He asked if I would like to kiss. I said I wasn’t ready. Would I like to meet again? Apprehensions came to mind. Could I find another evening’s questions, another round of praise, more ways to boost his ego, concealing what I want. I smiled a kind of quiet, on the other side of sometimes, where thwarted hope continues and carry-on prevails.