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Yet, perhaps my agony came from a different source. Surely not, old man, I argued internally. “What do you intend to do?” I asked, half afraid of ...he answer she would give. She picked up the bottle from the table. “I intend,” she said, with just the tiniest bit of a slur beginning to affect her speech, “to finish off this bottle of your very fine whiskey. Then I shall either accompany you to the nearest package store to replenish our supply, or root around in your cabinets for another source of. I just stood there as she explained that this might be her only chance because her parents didn't let her go out, and anyhow, no boys had ever asked her out. She whispered that she liked boys a lot but didn't know how to act around them. We stood there for a few minutes as she wiped away tears that never seemed to stop. Finally she stared at the floor and apologized for asking. She had taken my long delay as a refusal. Now she was staring at her feet and still crying. I was about to say she was. More

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