Walking down 3rd Street::::sense I'm being followed::::duck into Lolita's for phone change; no answer, I walk off, a woman catches up with me: "So, are you one of those Rolfing people?" "I work for the Institute." A beautiful woman, dark features, shadowy, dressed in all black, around forty::::in an instant she transforms her natural shyness into street-smart aggression, shifts from pure innocence to vampy sexiness, sheds utter simplicity to reveal a true intelligence; fleeting stiff, well framed smiles::::as if abbreviated objectless kissing::::deep red. Walking closely together down the narrow sidewalk she tells me she's a friend of J.'s and is working on an article about running and Rolfing; she's a playwright, keeps a meticulous journal, but mostly writes letters to friends and family. "Letter writing is an art," I say. She's very flirtatious, but with little direct eye contact. Black leather pumps, tight black stretch pants, old black leather jacket, lacy black silk blouse. I ask her name: "M." She has seen me writing ir the Trident. I give her a brief description of Wanderings. I ask her what she knows about Rolfing. She mumbles some nonsensical phrase which clarifies into how well her article will fit in the magazine folded under her arm. She laughs to herself for an instant, suddenly her swirling smoke-filled breeziness vanishes, replaced by a curious young teenage girl without any friends to whisper to::::evenness, control, fondness. She asks whether I am a student, or a certified Rolfer. I tell her I'm the janitor. She asks her question exactly as she asked it before::::I reply, "No, I'm the janitor.'' She stops. I stop, turn to face her. "Cleaning up," she says. I nod my head. She turns saying goodbye crosses the street. "Cleaning up."