There was a crack in the ceiling, Douglas noticed, as he stared up at it from his loft bed, unable to sleep. He was thinking about Fanguella. Feeling both guilty and defensive, but mostly completely confused with the way that she had left him that day, and especially that last look that she had given him. He didn’t know why it mattered, why he could not stop thinking of her, but he couldn’t. Boy, I’ve got it bad, he thought, smiling wryly to himself. And for all I know she could be, in fact probably is completely insane. But she intrigued him and excited him as no woman has done in a long time. She was unpredictable, spontaneous yet secretive, with moments of contemplative brilliance. Her face was soft and cool, he loved to watch the expressions flicker there, and he wanted to learn to understand what each one of those expressions meant. But she was crazy. Her behavior from the minute he had met her had been down right hostile and unpredictable. But the attraction was so strong between them, and those few moments of honesty between them felt so close, so intimate. As though they didn’t even need to open their mouth and they would understand each other. She really got what he had been trying to say when he was telling her about why he needed to create. And all that material that has been flying through his mind ever since he had met her, all those songs, all those ideas about how he wanted to live, who he wanted to be, and what would Fanguella think? Always it was what would she think?