Susan is a practical Western woman. She lives in Berkeley California but she doesn’t believe in astrology or the power of crystals or pyramids. She has never been drawn to meditation or Eastern philosophy. But everyone knows what goes around comes around. She was a little concerned that she’d pay for whatever she did to that cat. By the time she pulled her car into her steep driveway she’d decided to stop driving. She didn’t enjoy it anyway. She wasn’t good at it. With the money she could get for her three-year old sedan she’d have enough for years of cab rides to the grocery store, the doctors, and her parents.

She intended to walk to dinner anyway. Her friends’ house was only four blocks from hers and their neighborhood wasn’t threatening. She stepped out of her door at 6:20 that night, in clean jeans, a nice sweater and fresh makeup.

Her first impression of Siggy went both ways. He was in the kitchen when she arrived, slouched against a counter and turning away from a chat with Denise to look at Susan and Chuck as they entered the room. Susan was impressed with his height but not with his posture, with his abundant steel-and-black hair but not with its lack of style. She liked Siggy’s slimness but she couldn’t admire the way his corduroy pants sagged from his hips, showing the elastic of cheap boxers. At about 55, Susan thought he was too old for that look. She liked his blue eyes, his direct gaze. Some things about him reminded her of a man she’d known, briefly, 32 years ago. Siggy’s conversation was directed at her but not brilliant; Susan was able to reminisce while she participated in their formulaic dialogue.

She answered Siggy’s question about her work and sipped her wine while he started in about his. She thought about Alan.

When she started at Cal certain courses were famous among the students. There was the Folklore class; Professor Dundes collected little family traditions and superstitions and those were all he sought from his students. Harry Edwards ran his Education course then. He refused to use letter grades and passed all students, no matter what. And there was Oriental Languages 38A. It was the only one-credit course outside the PE department, met once a week (optional), and the grade depended on a book report, on any book. It had nothing to do with Oriental Languages. It was the perfect low-pressure way to round out a credit-short quarter. Susan enrolled in OL 38A. She went to the first two classes. She chose Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, which she had with her at the second class.

“That’s a great book,” was Alan’s opening line. She stopped gathering her things together and shook her then-long hair out of her eyes to look up at him. He was tall, thin, Jewish-looking, warm-eyed, good-humored, attractive. “I’m hardly into it yet, but I like it so far,” she said to him.

That was all she had to say. He must have been very experienced, because she wasn’t, and without knowing how it happened she walked with him all around South Berkeley and then to the big house where he was staying, talking about Heinlein and sci-fi and life in general while glancing at each other’s faces with increasing wonder at how good those faces looked.

He introduced her to some of the people in the house and then he took her to his room, where he kissed her deliciously. He took her breath away. He was 25 and not a student. He had a BA from Columbia. He was just passing through. He politely asked if he could eat her. She knew she blushed; she must have stared. He laughed delightedly and took her by the shoulders and kissed her again. “I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he murmured. She was a virgin then, and she thought his request was exciting, but there was no way she could consent without mortification. Not then. Then she had to get back to the dorm before lockout. Alan walked her home and kissed her once more, long and hungrily, in the stairwell near the entrance. They arranged to meet the next day. Susan went to her bed besotted.

There was a message the next morning. Alan had to go to LA sooner than he expected. But he’d be back, he said. He’d be in touch. Susan got a postcard three weeks later and never heard from the man again. She didn’t grieve – she was meeting so many and doing so much – but she never forgot him. And right then, Siggy reminded her of him.

Maybe it was his long lanky body. More likely his direct gaze, slow but intelligent. Or perhaps there was a resonance in the pattern of Susan’s need; it had been a long time since she received a satisfying hug or a deep enough caress. For some or all or more reasons, she found Siggy a bit attractive. She talked to him.