Sometimes it seems as if there is not much worse than sitting in class watching the clock, telling yourself like a mantra to listen and concentrate and make it through ten minutes at a time. When you have a stomachache coming in waves all day, what is really not needed is two hours of Chateaubriand followed by two hours of structural poetics and Russian formalists. What really is needed is an impromptu get-together with Tom, who blows off reading the Odyssey to sit with you at a quiet table in the back at Café Noir, where, over wines and tartares and coffee, he talks with you and makes you laugh. After, he walks you to Broadway-Lafayette, whereupon you walk him to Second Avenue, and before you part there is a hug and a kiss, and he tells you that everything will be okay.