Crossroads

by Jonathan Franzen

purpose.” “Wow. Okay.” He could hear that she was smiling, but the dichotomy of square and hip, the unfairness of it, was offensive to him. “There’s nothing wrong with being a square,” she said. “I think it’s cute. But I gather you’ve never tried pot yourself?” “Ah, no. Have you?” “Not—yet.” There was a twinkle in her voice. He took his eyes off the road and saw that she was watching him for a reaction. She seemed very activated, very happy with herself; seemed ready to play. He, too, had come to play, but his game wasn’t flirting. He had no faith in his skills there. “Your question,” he said. “Were you asking about your son?”