She came close to him, familiarly, because she’d been close to him often before, in cars, on hayrides, on warm pine needles at picnics, in movie theaters. “It’s a rotten time for young people.”
“For people,” he agreed, putting back his handkerchief.
“Charles?”
“Right here.” He kissed her forehead.
“Tomorrow, you’ll be gone.”
“Don’t remind we.”
“Charles. Why do we have to do like this all our lives?”
“For freedom,” he said ironically. “For God, for Country, and for Yale.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You always do, Lenore.”