Erik Parker was to dinner tonight. I was stricken. I could not speak, I could not look at him. But I could not keep from looking at him, again and again.
He looked much at me, too. His eyes are so intense. Thank you, God, for not allowing him to say anything to me that approached an order… how could one disobey that man and his eyes and his handsome face and body and that long brown ro…
NO NO! He didn't wear THAT here! He wore a deep blue shirt with a blue-and-green silk scarf knotted about his neck and short black boots with buckles, and snug-fitting black whipcords, sort of British looking, and his belt was black leather, very wide, shiny, with a huge silver buckle with two tongues and a double row of ungrommeted holes running all the way around it so that his waist was nicely constricted and his shoulders made even broader.
My God, did I notice all that? And then write it, without even realizing the detail I was putting down?
He is still downstairs. They are talking, very quietly. My door is closed. I even locked it; how silly I am! I am so restless.
(later)
I am going to bed. You are going to bed, Victoria Marie "Tory"! NOW.
I shall read. I will read Plato's Republic. That's guaranteed to put me to sleep.