We Who Are Kind FICTION Deftly she twisted and patted the three little curls on the top of her hair into place and picked up a bobby pin. They'd had so much fun together . . . seeing shows and going to dances . . . eating hot fudge sundaes and listening to their favorite songs. There had been long rides in the rain at night . . . and mile after mile of just being together with the soft purr of the windshield wiper swinging gently back and forth, lulling her to sleep on his shoulder. The phone rang. She shoved the pin into place. That didn't look right. The phone insisted. "Damn," she said, took the bobby pin out of her hair and threw it on the dresser. She took the receiver off the hook. "Hello? Oh, hello, Betty," she said, "how are you? I have a date and I'm running around like a mad beaver . . . No, darn it, I haven't. I don't know what I do with my time . . . Isn't it the truth . . . Oh, no; I'm sorry, I haven't. Helen might have her's, though . . . Well, I'd better be getting ready . . . Who? Oh, just Bill . . . Yes, I know . . . Sure he's nice . . . Yes, I will, Betty. 'Bye." Back to the mirror now to twist and pat. She looked around for another bobby pin. Betty was a pest. Why, when she was talking to Betty, had she said, "just Bill"? There was a night by a lake. Just thinking about it made something inside her ache. You just couldn't describe a night like that with words. Remembering was wonderfully painful. But things couldn't go on like this forever. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to her. She liked him, liked him a lot better than anyone she knew, but she didn't love him. There had been nights when she thought she did nights like that night by the lake. But anyone would have felt the same under the same conditions. She must have had a habit of raising her right eyebrow unconsciously. The right one was higher than the other. She wondered why she couldn't love him as much as he loved her. Perhaps she did love him in a way; maybe she wasn't as romantic as other girls. When he looked at her or talked to her there was something in that look and in his voice that made her feel guilty and ashamed to let him go on hoping she cared as much. She turned around and held a mirror in front of her so she could see how the back of her hair looked. Yes, that was nice. Why couldn't she feel completely and gloriously in love with him see in him what he evidently saw in her? There were times when he'd do things and say things that made her angry and disgusted. Why should she feel that way if she loved him? No, they simply couldn't go on like this. She would have to make him realize that she just didn't care as much as he did. He would probably want to be friends. He'd feel like wooing anyway, and they couldn't woo and still be just friends. Besides, that wouldnt solve the problem. She would have to break things off. All affairs have to end sometime. It would hurt him, but it would hurt him more if she kept putting it off. The tires sighed against the wet pavement. He could feel the steady throb of power from the engine. It had stopped raining, and the canyon was beautiful in the moonlight. Dull color and shadows moved slowly with the moon searching out secret places and painting the ever-changing beauty of rock and trees in the moonlight, as only moonlight can. He looked at her, at her hair sparkling, soft, and vibrant. She was sitting far over on her side of the seat. He reached and put his arm around her. His fingers moved tenderly along the ridge of her ear and over the back of her neck. He pulled her head toward his shoulder. She just sat and looked out of the window. He took his arm from around her and stared ahead at the road where the lights from the car merged with the night. It had been a perfect evening. Why should she act this way? She had been like this before, but in a nice way. By not taking no for an answer, he had managed to bring her around. Still, it bothered him. No other two people could feel such a deep and tender emotion without being convinced that it was the real thing. And yet it seemed almost as though she was growing tired of him. His hand ached from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. He relaxed and began to whistle a song both loved so well Larry Clinton's "Revery." He pressed the brake slowly, and the car came to a stop by the side of a lake. He pulled the emergency on with his foot. They had been here before, but each time it looked friendlier, lovelier. He wiped the mist from the (Continued on Page 19) Page 14 Isabella Edward By Robbins