your fingers, and go over to Alan and say, 'Hey, can I bum a cigarrette?" "

No! That would be too obvious. With Glimp it might have worked, but not with Alan. Alan is too aware of John already and he wasn't stupid, you could tell. Maybe it would be better to ask him what time it was. No. There was a clock right on the wall. Maybe he should say, "Pardon me, are you from New York?" No. That was too fishy. What if Alan just said "no," and refused to say anything more?

Now, wait. There must be a way. Think, now. Think hard. He could make some inane remark like "isn't it hot in there?" But it wasn't. Or he could say "nice night tonight." No; that was too romantic. "Are you in the literary college?" No! What would he say if Alan replied "yes," in a questioning tone? He knew absolutely nothing about the literary college and wouldn't he look stupid just standing there with an open mouth? He could say "I like your shorts." John laughed at this. In New York he could have said that because it obviously meant "I like what's in your shorts." But Alan was too sensitive for that and John didn't want to shock him or scare him away. He could say "would you mind telling me where you got your shorts?" which was a somewhat more polite way of saying "I like what's in them." But John had always been very unsuccessful at these little manufactured conversations.

Alan would probably answer that the shorts had been given to him, or that he'd gotten them in Philadelphia, and the conversation would end there. Then John would blush. He knew he would. Some guys who were quick on the draw would say, "Oh, Philadelphia. I've got friends there, etc. etc. etc." But that would give the obvious impression that John was buzzing

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this guy, and-well, Alan was a nice guy and John didn't want to make the impression that he was just trying to pick him up. He wanted Alan to like him as a person. That's what was so hard about it. It would have been a lot easier in many ways if raw sex could have satisfied him. But John's needs were deeper and more involved than that.

It was too late now, anyway. Alan was coming back. With a scrape, scrape, scuff he was once again seated. He crossed his bare legs at the ankles and rubbed them together gently and tantalizingly.

Something in John cried in agony and despair. He must think of some way to meet Alan. So he couldn't pull off one of those obvious have-you-gota-match deals. There must be some other way. But what? Alan was a nice boy, you could tell. He wouldn't object if John offered him a ride home. He probably lived in a fraternity house and didn't have a car. Certainly there was nothing hard in saying "hey, have you got a ride home?" Nothing hard about it at all. Well. But just suppose Alan were to reply "yes, I've got a ride," or "thanks, I'll walk." John could picture him laughing with the other guys in his fraternity house.

"Hey, you know some queer tried to pick me up tonight in the library?" "Yeah?"

"Ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha."

No, no. He . . . just . . . couldn't.

Maybe John just made all these problems for himself. Maybe this guy Alan would very willingly talk, go with John for coffee, even go home with him. Maybe he was just a little shy. He was shy. That was why John liked him. John had always found shy, good-looking fellows exciting.

John wiggled his pencil nervously. He was too timid. He had always been too timid. He just couldn't break the ice. He was too afraid of making a

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