"I'm reading a lot of science," Patrick said. "Just finishing Darwin."
"Yeah, Darwin," Amber said. "I was in the Galapagos Islands once."
"What! What were they like?"
"Kind of rocky. Foggy in the mornings when I was there. Nothing to do."
Patrick was impressed. "Darwin was good. He kept track. He thought about what he was seeing . . . those finch."
"Yeah," Amber said. She looked around the room. "The usual suspects," she said to Willow. "Long-tailed carpenters," she added for Patrick. It had been a full day. Things were happening too fast; Patrick wanted to slow down.
"Look," he said, "nice to meet you. I'll see you around. I've got a job—start tomorrow."
"Bye, Patrick," Amber said. Willow lifted one hand.
"Amber!" Patrick said to himself, walking back to his room. Frieda had gone to bed with him a couple of times during his last summer in Germany. He'd gotten lucky once at a party in Tallahassee. That was it. No one like Amber. His eyes opened wider as he remembered her. He put his hand on her shoulder, imagining the warm solid body under her white blouse. His mind spun out, and he cleared his throat. He shook his head, got control of himself, and walked faster.
A man playing a blues harp passed him on the other side of Tinker Street. The blues pulsed up into the evening sky, mournful and elaborate, a peacock tail of sound. Feelings stirred for which Patrick had no words. He pumped one fist in the air like a brother and turned aside to the rooming house.