. A bar stretched the length of one end of the room. Sam was there
by himself and said hello. Patrick excused himself as soon as he could
and sat at a small table on the other side of the room. Sam was always
mouthing off about the government and asking everyone where he could
score some grass. He was nervous in a way that put Patrick off. Patrick
didn't want to hassle with anyone who worked for Parker, so he kept his
mouth shut and avoided him. "Meat," he said to Sam. "I've got this
craving for meat. Got to have it!"

"Yeah, man." Sam's eyes darted around as Patrick escaped.

"Medium rare," Patrick ordered, and, by God, that's what he was served.
Delicious. He ate slowly, each bite a mini-ceremony. Eating out was
important to Patrick. While he was working, he worked hard,
concentrating. Dinner was a time to relax, to think, and to look
around. He enjoyed being in the midst of people without necessarily
having to talk to anyone. The Deanie's crowd was straighter than the
Depresso crowd. IBM'rs and local business people mixed with musicians
and artists. The waitresses were middle-aged. The pies were
particularly good.

This was Patrick's third dinner at Deanie's. He was beginning to feel
more at home in Woodstock. His landlady, Gert, had become more
friendly. Patrick was willing to help with little things around the
house, that probably had something to do with it. She was a reader,
too, he'd discovered. They talked about books. The other day, he'd
asked her what she was reading.

"Every story is a love story, isn't it, Patrick?" She had chuckled
comfortably and continued reading. He didn't know what to make of that.
Did she mean every story about anything? Or every story a writer felt
was worth the effort? She had said it as though it were self evident,
as though he shouldn't be pestering her for an explanation. Or maybe he
was supposed to figure it out for himself.

"Wonderful pie," he said to the waitress.

"We make a lot of them," she said. Patrick left a big tip and walked
slowly toward home. He had an urge for a Hershey bar as he passed
Ann's. Ann took his change without comment.

"Willow makes a good sandwich," he said.

"You like her, don't you," she said accusingly. He didn't know what to
say. Ann glared at him. "You young people think we don't feel anything.
Well, you're wrong. What's your name?"

"Patrick."

"We have feelings, too. You think we weren't young once?"

"Sorry," he said, unsure. "Nig