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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 144 I don't think that has anything to do with it. Or do I? Maybe. At sundown we walk up the hill to the University. The evening is pleasant, and Mark holds my hand all the way. The pianist's performance is sensitive and exciting. He plays Tchaikovsky's Theme and Variations, Op. 19, No. 6, a Prokofiev Sonata that is controlled and articulate, and a romantic Chopin Sonata, lyrical and lovely. He does Rachmaninoff as an encore, and another short Chopin. Mark listens intently, completely absorbed in the music. His face is relaxed and happy. And we walk home. On the way we stop for pizza and cold mugs of root beer. I feel mellow and sentimental. "It's been really good, hasn't it, these seven years," I say. "I mean, everything. All the time." "It i£ good," Mark agrees. "Mark, I'm glad you love me." And finally I find the courage to say what has been unspoken in my mind for months. "What will you do if I die?" There. I have never said that word aloud to him before. "I've never considered that possibility," he says. "Maybe you should." I blow the paper from my straw at him. |