Another hot day in the eighties. I started my Cubist essay on Picasso and Braque before Lee arrived. At twelve-thirty I heard the gate go and Mum shouted for me and I told her to send him up and who should peer round the door but Claire! I suppose inside I was elated.
A rush of conversation, talking her about her summer camp. It was good to see her but my nervousness and excitement or whatever was again apparent. I was actually trembling! It got really stuffy in my room and so we decided to go out. She asked me down to her place. Lee never showed up. On the way down I felt more at ease, and towards the end I felt quite OK and confident. She told me about her fledgling romance with a lad from the camp who she spends ages on the ‘phone with; inside I was all screwed up and frustrated. Her Mum told me about a job.
I left at five feeling anti-climactic. Pointless, self-indulgent analysis on the way home. What is it about me? Jeremy rang. . . . I'm sliding irrevocably into the mould once more.
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