in the group. It never worked out. He had to find
another way.

Late one morning, he was at the Wailana Coffee Shoppe when a young
woman sat down across from him. She was blonde, lightly tanned; her
face was composed, nearly immobilized, with eye shadow, liner, and rich
red lipstick. She had an air of sadness that was at cross purpose to
her youth and to the perfection of her makeup. She ate breakfast and
left, untroubled by Joe's attention.

For the thousandth time he wished he could draw, but words were his
best tools. It was more than the woman's appearance that he wanted to
capture; he wanted to know how he felt about her. Writing was a way of
finding out. For the rest of the day, as he walked in the city, he
fiddled with words, starting over and over.

The next morning he returned to the Wailana. The beauty wasn't there,
but he could remember her well enough to keep writing. A woman sat next
to him at the counter. He paid no attention until she asked him to pass
the ketchup. She was having home fries with her eggs. "Nothing like
home fries," Joe said.

"Stick to your ribs," she said, blushing slightly. She had nice ribs,
large breasts pushed against a white blouse. "What'cha doing, if you
don't mind my asking? You look so intense."

"I was trying to describe someone."

"Are you a writer?"

"No," Joe said.

"My name is Alison, Alison Carl. Have you been here long? In Hawaii, I
mean."

"About six months . . . I used to live here." She had short sandy
colored hair, a blunt nose and a wide mouth. No makeup. She chewed
toast with a satisfied expression.

"I'm doing post graduate work at the East-West Center. I saw the Dalai
Lama yesterday."

Joe sat straighter. "No kidding? What was he like?"

"Cute. Like a little rock." She was compact, a high energy type.
"What's your name?"

"Joe Burke." He took evasive action. "Alison, I'm too old for you." She
looked downcast for a moment and then raised her eyebrows hopefully.

"Can you walk?"

"I can."

"There," she said winningly, taking a large forkful of potatoes. "What
you mean, I think, is that you think I'm too young for you. It's a
compliment, really. Men have trouble saying what they think,
sometimes." She seemed pleased, like a teen-ager.

"What are you studying?" Joe asked.

"Buddhism. I have a doctorate in comparative religion. I was a pastor
for a while and then I worked at a seminary. I was canned."

"Fired?"

"Yup. They were hypocrites,