by J. Budziszewski

on and I had just taken chairs in the Edge of Night. “Whatcha want?” asked the waitress. “Espresso,” said I.

“Pizza,” said Don. “Sixteen inch, double pepperoni, double grease.”

She turned her gimlet eye back to me. “Y’want that espresso triple, double, or squimpy?”

“Squimpy,” I answered, “thanks.” She slouched away.

“Squimpy?” said Don.

“Double grease?” I answered. We laughed. Don is always eating. A full eight inches taller than I am, he weighs at least thirty pounds less. You can draw your own conclusions.

On the walk across campus he’d been telling me his problem with his housemate’s girl friend.

“Um, can we talk now, Prof?”

“Let’s see,” I said. “She came on to you, you didn’t give in, but — how did you put it? — the experience raised some questions in your mind. What questions?”

“Well …” Don reddens easily, and he reddened now. “It’s not that I’m …” Pause. “I mean, I know God intends sex for marriage, but …” Pause. “She’s awfully good-looking, and I couldn’t help wondering …” Dead stop.

“Wondering what it would …” I prompted. Not that I wanted to answer that particular question.

“No! I mean, yes, I did wonder that. But it’s not my question.”

“What’s your question?”

“Why did God reserve sex for marriage? There must be reasons, but it would help a healthy guy a whole lot to know what they are.”

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