"What a man!"
"Sit down, Gino."
"No compassion."
"It's lonely at the top," Gino said, trudging toward a ladder.
That evening in the Depresso, Patrick finished the mathematics book. He planned to mail it to Molly on Saturday, when he usually checked the Post Office for mail. His parents and Molly were the only people who wrote to him. They were used to mailing to General Delivery wherever he was living; he hadn't given them Gert's address. And anyway, summer wasn't going to last forever; he wasn't sure how long he'd be around Woodstock. Willow. He couldn't really think about her. She was too new, too big, or something. He felt the sweetness again and was glad that they were getting together the next night.
Patrick looked out the Depresso window and saw a red Chevy convertible passing with its top down. Willow was riding on the passenger side, her hair blowing. Martin. Willow. So that's why she couldn't meet me, he realized. She looked as though she were having a good time. What do I do now? he wondered.
The next afternoon, Willow was at the Depresso before him, absorbed in a paperback. "Hi, there," Patrick said. She looked up and smiled.
"Hi, Patrick. I brought my largest handkerchief."
"What are you reading?"
"Balthazar, by Lawrence Durrell."