Late August or Early September, 1965. We've known this day was coming from the start. Her college is about five miles away, mine about 1,500. We're way too far along for either of us to transfer; and hers does not have ROTC, no small consideration in these 'Nam & Draft Era days.

I wish she wouldn't take it so hard.

I'll miss this second-story walkup. It's in a converted private home, so the floor plan is unique and the furniture a mix of the landlord's castoffs and second-hand items; but she's added a few touches. Much more cozy, intimate, than a "real" apartment. I've spent part of most days and all of many nights here; and hate to see them end.

She looks at me with sheer hatred. Even when a couple of friends drop by.

One last look in the bedroom. Her jewelry box, a lovely thing of tan wood, is on her dressing table. I reach to touch it one last time.
"That's mine. I'm taking it with me."
Her words say "Do not touch." Her face says Freud was right.

Nothing to do but leave. I go out the sunporch door, down the steps to my car. Soon I'm on a street in my college town, about a mile from the campus and my rented room, looking forward to the coming year.