She’d wanted only to arrange a time to be alone with him—possibly a coffee in the morning—to discover what his interest in her was; to imagine him as her admirer, and maybe as her lover; to absorb more of the details of which the beautiful Dutch boy was composed. And then he hadn’t shown up. I guess he finally got tired of me, Ruth thought. She could sympathize with him if he had; she had never felt so tired of herself.
