Love Story [antikvár]

/ What can you say about a twenty-five-year-dd girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beades. And me. Once, when she specifically lumped me with those musical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, sn^og, "Alphabetical." At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whether she was listing me by my first name; —in which case I would trail Mpzart—or by my last name, in which case I would edge in there between Bach and the Beades. Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the nodon that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don*t you know? In the fall of my ^fenior year, I got into the habit of studying at the Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese^ II