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Nestled between precarious shelves of cascading poetry volumes, Anne stared at the bald head of her professor.

"I'm moving to New York after graduation. I've decided."

"Well. Good. Is that good? How do you feel about it?"

He adjusted his glasses and put his finger tips to his lips in wait of her response. It was her customary agitated reflex to cross her arms over her chest and clutch her shoulders.

"Are you cold?"

"No... no."

Un-clutch.

"Yes, it's good. I think. I don't know."

Clutch.

"I'm hoping, thinking that I will grow to love it. But it's not London. I tried to make it feel more like home the last time I visited. It didn't. But maybe it could be. I don't know. If I can't be in London, it's the only other place I can be."

He frowned. And then recommended Sylvia Plath's New York memoirs. She nodded while immediately mentally vetoing the idea; she didn't need a like-minded companion under her bell jar.

It was, at least, raining as she climbed the hill to her apartment.

Once safely sequestered on the 8th floor, she sank into the doorway of her bathroom. There she could best hear the rain rattling the metal air vent above the shower. But it was never loud enough, never! She was always craning her neck, resting her head on windows... and the rain was never loud enough!

Anne's eyelashes were already wet. She didn't mind crying.