The Virgin and The Fool

The purple duffel bag lay open on Daphne's bed, a silent testament to her impending doom. A 20,000-word junior thesis loomed, a monstrous shadow over her soul, yet here she was, packing for a weekend in 'God knows where' with Fred.
"This is a good thing, Daph," Fred chirped, oblivious, smearing eyeshadow on his lids. Daphne just glared, shoving textbooks into the bag, the memory of Dr. Yantz, her ex-professor and ex-lover, a fresh wound. He'd dumped her in an email. An email.
"He's no cicada-obsessed lunatic with raisin hands," Fred continued, nudging her. "But I really think you and Beau are gonna hit it off."
Before Daphne could protest, the door burst open. Velma, ever the whirlwind, strode in, followed by the distant rumble of a bright green motorcycle. Beau. Daphne sighed. This weekend, it seemed, was going to be anything but quiet.
