Bicycling up the hill, Oslo thought how sex is like bicycling up and down hills in country, the sensations of light and air and smells flowing around one in a rapid, unrepeatable fashion, the discipline required to scale an improbable height, the release and coasting delirium on the other side. As he pedaled up a soft incline, he saw a young, dark-haired woman approaching, walking a small terrier. As they passed each other, the only two people visible, he said, “Hi,” and she responded, “Hi.” A seemingly minimal exchange, but for Oslo, her “hi” resonated in a way he hardly thought possible. It was as if her “hi” embodied a sense of relief and also a full commentary on him and his person, his manner of dress. The exact cadence of her utterance seemed to him full of various implications, all of which pointed to the fact of their meeting, or more properly their passing each other on a country road, which said that you and I have a special understanding and will know each other more. As he continued on his ride, though, Oslo felt that that meeting should be left as is; perfect as it was without desire to follow it up. Contrary to the normal belief dictating that a positive encounter must lead ultimately to the shared throaty exhalations of simultaneous climax, Oslo thought how much better to leave this perfect, as it is, in the past, on the road there. “Hi.” “Hi.”