When Caroline Walker fell in love with Julian English she was a little tired of him.
That was in the summer of 1926,
one of the most unimportant years in the history of the united States,
and the year in which Caroline Walker was sure
her life had reached a pinnacle of uselessness.
She was four years out of college then,
and she was twenty-seven years old,
which is as old as anyone ever gets,
or at least she thought so at the time.
She found herself thinking more and more and less and less of men.
That is the way she put it, and she knew it to be sure and right,
but she did not bother to expand the -ism.
“I think of them oftener, and I think of them less often.”
She had attained varying degrees of love, requited and unrequited –
but seldom the latter.