And What's The Deal With Fran?

"Is it even worth the effort?" He wondered. He couldn't even get himself to bother with coming up with something clever to say. So why, he imagined, would anybody care why her persistence should remain such a puzzle, why no one should know or seem to care what she was coasting on--if she was coasting on anything at all. Maybe you had to be there. Maybe, one day, he'd understand. But what to understand, he couldn't even begin to speculate. Perhaps the subtlety was all imagined, just like the poet had said. Whatever it might be, it sure was no mystery that yearned for resolution, at least not to himself. And so he wasted a good half hour in search of that cut to the gut that leaves the beast to drown in its own certainty. And finally resigned himself to leaving the question unanswered. But not before reminding himself to make nice with Krucoff. This much he had learned.