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He can't constantly write creatively when trying to memorize a foreign language, and when he should be storming the ramparts of new ideas and concepts that are hard enough to engineer out of English let-alone be-thinking Chinese. It's all mute anyway. She quit coming around, working some social-volunteer gig. The question and she said it, "How am I going to control you" ? He is Seeing her forever and a day finally, she again expected him to chase-her. She demands it, or she is just not-interested but in-pretend. Walking, they had a mutual just passing past-stop, and of course he could have assumed his before hot-to-trot prance, to the accompaniment of splintered verbal-repartee. But he had changed his blind.

He assumed he would see Miss homeless again. That was his experience with many people. And he did. She came by pausing before reaching his bench, apparently taking pictures, with what turned-out to be her new I-phone, of squirrels. She stayed not-long, and they exchanged charged ideas. She had to go to class.

It was a month at least before he saw her again. She walking toward him, with big-feeling greeting and he walked with her to the bench-house, where they sat on wood under the sun and talked for three and a half hours. He said she was-one of the few women world-wide, that could out-talk him. He loved that. She was really bright, but not having the literary social education, she did not-know just how bright. He performed for her like at a sunny-summer Shakespearean festivus. He told stories. He got on his knees. He talked philosophy. She had counters for everything. They had pleasant and theatrical conversation. Only he had a conflict of which he told her.

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