In most ways she was crazy. "That football player almost raped me in Barcelona," she said, and you winced. They'd met at a club and her friends tried to hook them up. They spread rose petals all over the hotel bed. The room had a balcony. "But I didn't like him, anyway." You drank your coffee and stared at the sidewalk. What always disturbed you about her stories was the fact that she was constantly getting into dangerous, awful, violent situations, but she never seemed aware of this. She was indignant. When you're feeling kind you suppose that her indignant reactions are a kind of awareness.