Love Story [antikvár]

What can you say about a twcnty-five-year-old 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, smiling, "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 Mozart—-or by my last name, m 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 notion that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don't you know? In die fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of study-mg at the Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, II