.	once d.a.levy rode with me from maybe there to perhaps somewhere else. Streetlights turned his face on and off, left his eyeholes black. Always gentle, he reached across a fine silence suddenly and ran his hand through my hair. "It does," he said out of the dark. "It really does." Whatever he knew about what my hair did, pleased him. That was much better than if he had said I was beautiful. (I would have doubted.) But even after five years of wondering what he meant, I still believe him. Whatever it was, it has lasted a long time.                              - Grace Butcher                              1970