She always waited patiently in the hall to talk with me. It somehow made me quite proud and a little proprietary, I must admit. One day, half way thro...gh the semester, the boys had come and gone, and she came in slowly with her ever present shyness. I told her to sit down and tell me what was on her mind. This time was different. She wouldn't even meet my eye. I had to find out what the problem was. I had started to care a lot for this little American Indian girl, and I didn't like what I was. He set moms aside. Pulling a sharpy from his ever-present shoulder bag, he signed the acid poem, slid it back into the shelf and pulled out one of his collections. Reread some of them. Better than he remembered.She placed the larger format plays atop the stack of novels. “So what are you doing in Paris?” she asked.“I’m playing bass for my old friend.”“Eddie Frank?” she asked, excited.He chuckled and pulled out a CD and signed it for her. “To the world’s loveliest bookseller,” he wrote.“Thanks,”. More

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