for a long time, and then she put down her purse and straightened my tie and puffed up my breast pocket handkerchief. "You were very upset tonight, Charlie."
"I feel ridiculous."
"I upset you by talking about it. I made you self-conscious."
"It's not that. What bothers me is that I can't put into words the way I feel."
"These feelings are new to you. Not everything has to ... be put into words."
I moved closer to her and tried to take her hand again, but she pulled away. "No, Charlie. I don't think this is good for you. I've upset you, and it might have a negative effect."
When she put me off, I felt awkward and ridiculous at the same time. It made me angry with myself and I pulled back to my side of the seat and stared out the window. I hated her as I had never hated anyone before—with her easy answers and maternal fussing. I wanted to slap her face, to make her crawl, and then to hold her in my arms and kiss her.
"Charlie, I'm sorry if I've upset you."
"Forget it."
"But you've got to understand what's happening."
"I understand," I said, "and I'd rather not talk about it."
By the time the cab reached her apartment on Seventy-seventh Street, I was thoroughly miserable.
"Look," she said, "this is my fault. I shouldn't have gone out with you tonight."
"Yes, I see that now."
"What I mean is, we have no right to put this on a personal ... emotional level. You have so much to do. I have no right to come into your life at this time."
"That's my worry, isn't it?"
"Is it? This isn't your private affair any more, Charlie. You've got obligations now—not only to Professor Nemur and Dr. Strauss, but to the millions who may follow in your footsteps."
The more she talked that way, the worse I felt. She highlighted my awkwardness, my lack of knowledge about the right things to say and do. I was a blundering adolescent in her eyes, and she was trying to let me down easy.
As we stood at the door to her apartment, she turned and smiled at me and for a moment I thought she was going to invite me in, but she just whispered: "Good night, Charlie. Thank you for a wonderful evening."
I wanted to kiss her good night. I had worried about it earlier. Didn't a woman expect you to kiss her? In the novels I'd read and the movies I'd seen, the man makes the advances. I had decided last night that I would kiss her. But I kept thinking: what if she turns me down?
I moved closer and reached for her shoulders, but she was too quick for me. She stopped me and took my hand in hers. "We'd better just say good night this way, Charlie. We can't let this get personal. Not yet."
And before I could protest, or ask what she meant by not yet, she started inside. "Good night, Charlie, and thank you again for a lovely ... lovely time." And closed the door.
I was furious at her, myself, and the world, but by the time I got home, I realized she was right. Now, I don't know whether she cares for me or if she was just being kind. What could she possibly see in me? What makes it so awkward is that I've never experienced anything like this before. How does a person go about learning how to act toward another person? How does a man learn how to behave toward a woman?
The books don't help much.
But next time, I'm going to kiss her good night.
May 3—One of the things that confuses me is never really knowing when something comes up from my past, whether it really happened that way, or if that was the way it seemed to be at the time, or if I'm inventing it. I'm like a man who's been half-asleep all his life, trying to find out what he was like before he woke up. Everything is strangely slow-motion and blurred.
I had a nightmare last night, and when I woke up I remembered something.
First the nightmare: I'm running down a long corridor, half blinded by the swirls of dust. At times I run forward and then I float around and run backwards, but I'm afraid because I'm hiding something in my pocket. I don't know what it is or where I got it, but I know they want to take it away from me and that frightens me.