Diane didn’t have whatever “it” was either (a trust fund, Paul thought, or maybe a childhood spent in Westchester), but she had something else, something different from everyone in the room, something different from other girls. Diane was as fascinatingly blank as any man. And as frustrating. A shiny reflective surface and Paul a magpie. The mystery of her cheeks, her dimples ever-shocking when she’d smile at him from across the bed or table.
