We flew to Rome together, she to catch a plane for the States, I for Athens. The night before, I’d seen the performance of her play and its companion piece by Ed Albee. Watching them, any fool would know that Molly was a nice person and Ed perhaps less nice, but his play had heat and punch, and hers did not. After the show, I saw that everybody in and around the theatre—the actors, the stagehands, and the management—loved Molly, recognizing that she was a person of rare class. I also saw that this wasn’t what she wanted. When we kissed goodbye, I told her that she, along with my mother, was the best person I’d ever known, but I’m afraid that wasn’t what she wanted to hear either. During our three days together, we’d not made love.