You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class. She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. I’ve tried to use my authority. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired.
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