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love? No, none of these. What then, I wonderedand spoke to her gruffly, yet even somy tenderness came through.She sat in a chair with a towel around herhair to dry it and in my housecoat lookedalmost like a boy. Alternately shy and aggressive,sad and funny, hostile and defenceless shemolded my moods like figures in clay. Outsidethe rain kept pouring down and now and thena clap of thunder shook the house- whilestreaks of lightning slashed the velvet sky andbriefly brightened the room. We sat in darkness,our voices becoming more and more intimate,our thoughts meeting and blending,only to separate again, reluctantly, before becomingone."Can I stay for the night and sleep on thefloor?" she suddenly asked, and my heartpicked up a httle speed. "Because of the rain,"she added. "I mean you can't chase me outin that rain, can you? You couldn't. Youwouldn't."My lips were uncomfortably dry, whichmade it difficult to speak. "All right." I foundsome blankets and put them on the floor nextto my bed. Why there? Because I liked her tobe close? Her or just another human being?How does one ever know? I felt like someonein a dream, as if whatever I did could be erasedby the light of day or the heat of the sun.We lay there breathing in the dark. Just thesound of our breathing, the steady drip offalling rain upon the roof, the ticking of aclock and my own heart beating.Suddenly her head without the towel wasat the level with my eyes."Aren't you asleep yet?" I asked, as if I'dbeen running or smoking too much."Are you?"I lifted myself on one elbow pretending tobe looking through the window and felt herbreath upon my cheek—a warm little windcoming closer and then growing damp, as ifthe rain was coming in. Her mouth was cooland innocent, clean like that of a young boy.I felt confused, uncertain of what part to play,unable to be what I wasn't. Blindly, guidedby primitive instincts beyond my control, myhands began to undo buttons and for the firsttime ever uncovered a woman's breast—a smallwhite hill, firm yet soft, that rose and fellwithin the prison of hand. I mounted it withmy lips, lingered briefly at its peak, then buriedmy face in the hollow of her throat and filledit with tears."Don't cry," said Chn., above my head. "It'snot your fault. You can't help being what youare. You want a man, and I'm not a man." Alittle later, lifting my face she kissed my eyesand said again: "I'm not a man," in a voiceof infinite despair.No man, I thought, can know a woman'sloneliness, and then because my own despairhad found release in tears, I went to sleep, stillresting my head upon her peaceful hills, contentlike a child at its mother's breast.In the morning, when I woke, Chris had left.Pinned to my pillow was a little note whichread: "Do not be sad. It stopped raining, soI went home."Soon afterwards she left the hostel and Inever saw her again. But often, when it rains, Ithink about her and how much we might havegiven each other, if only she had been a man—or I a different woman.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 29