But it did hurt like a fucking bitch. I probably sprained or wrenched something. It was painful to walk at that point, but walk I did. All the way to the train tracks. At some point I had resolved to see my parents, however this had gone, but at this point it was not something I wanted to do. As would become common for me later in life, discomfort lead to a desire to run. And run I did.I was sick, nauseous, and worn out. I was tired, like a huge weight had been burdened upon my shoulders. I felt like I had actually been hit by one of the freight trains I had been riding. I was suicidal. The only thing that stopped me from ending it forever more was an even stronger desire. That desire was the desire to run away as fast as possible. That desire reached full strength that night, and has never left me; it governed my life.I got to the tracks, and only had to wait about five minutes before a surprisingly sluggish Conrail train started chugging by. I quickly spotted a box car with a. I had prepared for it by carrying an umbrella, and she hadn't. I liked to carry tent-umbrellas, the sort that open to six feet across, and I offered to walk her up to the Art Institute. She accepted. By holding the umbrella up high and between us we could walk without quite touching or getting very wet. By the end of the trip, as she was going through the door to wait for her class to start, I asked her for a date again. She laughed, and said, "I admire your persistence. Why not? All right, just this once." "Please," said, looking very hurt. "At least wait a while before turning me down for a second date. Who knows, you might actually like the first one." She smiled and turned away. As it happened, she did like the first date, for all that it was something of a busman's holiday for her. We went to an art museum; the Walters had reopened its medieval wing after two years, and she spent most of the time studying armor and weapons. She was fascinated though.
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