“So how is that Trotskyite friend of yours?” “She’s fine, Pappy.” He laughed. “She’s not a Trotskyite.” “Could’ve fooled me.” Pappy sighed. “Ah, the passion of youth. She’ll settle down.” Anton wasn’t so sure. The engagement ring rested at the bottom of his sock drawer. It seemed preposterous now, proposing marriage to Carine, when he was torn with so many doubts. Her passion, her indignation, which once seemed admirable to him, exotic, even, now felt tiresome. Sometimes he couldn’t tell if she was self-righteous or mentally unstable.
