Love Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

being
evasive when she answered:
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Yeah. I guess. Maybe.’
    I kissed her neck.
    ‘Oliver?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I don’t just love you …’
    Oh, Christ, what was this?
    ‘I love you very much, Oliver.’

6
    I
love Ray Stratton.

    He may not be a genius or a great
football player (kind of slow at the snap), but he was always a good
roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor bastard suffered through
most of our senior year. Where did he go to study when he saw the tie
placed on the doorknob of our room (the traditional signal for
‘action within’)? Admittedly, he didn’t study that much, but he
had to sometimes. Let’s say he used the House library, or Lament,
or even the Pi Eta Club. But where did he sleep on those Saturday
nights when Jenny and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay
together? Ray had to scrounge for places to sack in - neighbors’
couches, etc., assuming they had nothing going for them. Well, at
least it was after the football season. And I would have done the
same thing for him.

    But what was Ray’s reward? In days
of yore I had shared with him the minutest details of my amorous
triumphs.
    Now he was not only denied these
inalienable roommate’s rights, but I never even came out and
admitted that Jenny and I were lovers. I would just indicate when we
would be needing the room, and so forth. Stratton could draw what
conclusion he wished.
    ‘I mean, Christ, Barrett, are you
making it .or not?’ he would ask.
    ‘Raymond, as a friend I’m asking
you not to ask.’
    ‘But Christ, Barrett, afternoons,
Friday nights, Saturday nights. Christ, you must be making it.’
    ‘Then why bother asking me, Ray?’
    ‘Because it’s unhealthy.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘The whole situation, Ol. I mean,
it was never like this before. I mean, this total freeze-out on
details for big Ray. I mean, this is unwarranted. Unhealthy. Christ,
what does she do that’s so different?’
    ‘Look, Ray, in a mature love affair
- ‘
    ‘Love?’
    ‘Don’t say it like it’s a dirty
word.’
    ‘At your age? Love? Christ, I
greatly fear, old buddy.’
    ‘For what? My sanity?’
    ‘Your bachelorhood. Your freedom.
Your life!’
    Poor Ray. He really meant it.
    ‘Afraid you’re losing a roommate,
huh?’
    ‘Still, in a way I’ve gained one,
she spends so much time here.’
    I was dressing for a concert, so this
dialogue would shortly come to a close.
    ‘Don’t sweat, Raymond. We’ll
have that apartment in New York. Different babies every night. We’ll
do it all.’
    ‘Don’t tell me not to sweat,
Barrett. That girl’s got you.’
    ‘It’s all under control,’ I
replied. ‘Stay loose.’ I was adjusting my tie and heading for the
door. Stratton was somehow unconvinced.
    ‘Hey, Ollie?’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘You are making it, aren’t you?’
    ‘Jesus Christ, Stratton!’
    I was not taking Jenny to this
concert; I was watching her in it. The Bach Society was doing the
Fifth Brandenburg Concerto at Dunster House, and Jenny was
harpsichord soloist.
    I had heard her play many times, of
course, but never with a group or in public. Christ, was I proud. She
didn’t make any mistakes that I could notice.
    ‘I can’t believe how great you
were,’ I said after the concert.
    ‘That shows what you know about
music, Preppie.’
    ‘I know enough.’
    We were in the Dunster courtyard. It
was one of those April afternoons when you’d believe spring might
finally reach Cambridge. Her musical colleagues were strolling nearby
(including Martin Davidson, throwing invisible hate bombs in my
direction), so I couldn’t argue keyboard expertise with her, We
crossed Memorial Drive to walk along the river.
    ‘Wise up, Barrett, wouldja please.
I play okay. Not great. Not even ‘All-Ivy.’ Just okay. Okay?’
    How could I argue when she wanted to
put herself down?
    ‘Okay. You play okay. I just mean
you should always keep at it.’
    ‘Who said I wasn’t going to keep
at it, for God’s