I miss my man. I can’t settle down to anything; any books, I mean. This is what being thwarted in love does to me, even if I’m only being thwarted for a few weeks — my reading suffers. And I’m finding Gene all over the place. In Forster, for example: “It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behavior, would not be modified by awe.”
Gene never has been in awe of me, even at fifteen, an age when one might expect a little awe of a pretty girl. I love that about him. I’ve had to supply twice the awe, of course, to make up for it, but this seems to work for us.
It does feel odd to be buying prosaic things like tablecloths for a wedding with such a man. We probably ought to go stand alone in some hidden grove very quietly for a few minutes and at the end of it we would be married. But one does have to eat, after all, and one might as well have tablecloths to keep the dirt off the food.