“You’ve got a tail.”

I turned around to see the prettiest girl smiling at me. She had bouncy blonde hair and impish green eyes, and I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. For a moment I thought she meant she was the tail—that she’d followed me out of the little gift shop, which in fact she had. “Behind you,” she said.

I peered over my shoulder. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just the little gift shop on a quiet street at the edge of the college campus.

“A tail tail,” she said. “On your behind.” She reached around me, holding my eyes with hers. We were almost close enough to kiss. I felt the faintest pressure of her hand on the bottom of my bluejeans, and then nothing. She’d stepped back. She had a piece of string in her hands. Ordinary string tangled in a ball. She spent a moment straightening it out. It stretched two feet, maybe a little more.

Her eyes twinkled. “Were you fishing for something?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Were you fishing for me?”

Now I really didn’t know what to say.

She looped the string around my neck, and while knotting it, she said, “I wouldn’t want you to lose your tail. I know all about string theory.”

“String theory?” I replied stupidly.

“Yeah, you know. Quarks, hadron anomalies, glueballs. Solves all the problems of the universe. All the physical problems, anyway. Come with me.”

She tugged on the string, then let me free, and I followed her across campus. We didn’t speak. A few late winter snowflakes hung in the air. She led me into an apartment building and up the steps.

At the door, she dug a key out of her jeans.

“Do you even know who I am?” I said.

“Sure I do,” she answered. The door clicked open. We stepped inside.

“You’re Professor Baker. Assistant Professor Baker. My roomie has you for romantic poetry. Says you’re really good. Says you’re cute, too. Just a little underfed. I’m going to make you dinner. Grilled cheese okay?”

I watched her work at the stove. She toasted bread in a buttered iron skillet. “Is your roommate as...” I trailed off.

“Beautiful and impetuous as me?” She laughed. She shredded cheese and sprinkled it on the pieces of bread. She adjusted the flame, pressed bare bread slices on top of the two already in the skillet, and after a few moments, she flipped both sandwiches with a spatula. I could see the melting cheese begin to ooze out the sides. Deftly she took the sandwiches from the skillet and put them onto a wide, white dinner plate.

We sat at the small kitchen table, the perfectly browned grilled cheese sandwiches between us.

“Go ahead, take a bite.”

I did. Delicious.

“And you just happened to see me with the string?” I asked.

“You caught me,” she said. “It was my string all along. I palmed it. Are you mad at me?”

I took another bite of the sandwich. Truly excellent. The best I’d ever tasted.

“Want some beer to go with?” she said. “I got Guinness and plenty of it. Ice cold. In honor of St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Okay,” I said.

She poured us each a glass. Above the dark brew, the foam rose up thick and tan. We sat there smiling at each other, and then I took another bite. She watched me eat. “Aren’t you having any?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we share and share alike?”

“I want you to have mine,” she said. “Go on, gobble it up like a growing boy.”

I couldn’t resist. The sandwiches were so good. The beer, too. She poured us each another glass.

“Tell me about poetry,” she said. “Tell me about quatrains and iambs and onomatopoeias, and I’ll tell you about quarks and hadrons and glueballs.”

We talked. I talked. Basic lecture stuff, but she seemed so pleased to be listening. We’d moved to the living room, and she sat on the sofa with her legs curled under her and her eyes on mine. Sometimes she’d take a sip of beer, and from time to time she’d fetch fresh bottles. All afternoon I recited Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Keats. Outside her windows, the snow fell harder. The darkness started to come. The snow in the silver glow of streetlamps was like the silent rain of a million tiny moths. Abruptly I switched to Yeats.

Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Show me what you got at the gift store.”

“Didn’t you see?”

“Show me.”

I stood up, and from my pocket I withdrew the small packet. I opened it, and into her palm I shook the pin—a small shamrock with petals of pale jade.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Is it for someone special?”

I nodded.

“Someone very special?”

I shrugged.

Her smile slipped momentarily into a frown. “Did you get a chain for it?”

“Oh. I didn’t even think of that.”

Her fingers went to my throat. I’d forgotten about my string. She unknotted it and slipped an end through the eyelet at the clover’s stem. Then she retied the knot.

She grinned at me. “How’s that?”