Memories I might have made up
I believe there was a boy who was madly in love with me, and I saw so little of my boyfriend at the time that I rather wished he would confess, even though I had absolutely no intention of returning his affections. Finally, half a year after I had left, he found a girlfriend, and I was shamefully jealous.
I seem to recall a series of parties, held in the dorm he shared with our mutual friends, at which we would get ourselves exuberantly drunk on the generous donations of his next-door neighbor, whose parents supplied him with an assortment of expensive liquors. One night in a darkened room I downed a flaming shot of rum and almost immediately sank to a chair, certain I would be sick. Did he really kneel by my side, shaky eyes seeking out my face? Perhaps I imagined it.
I could swear we exchanged links and videos with regularity until the fortunate young lady entered his life, at which point communication all but ceased. I'm fairly certain he bought his pith helmet after I sent him the address of a purveyor of steampunk couture. It sat on the shelf of his desk when my now-fiance and I visited near the end of the summer of our graduation, when the young man's infatuation with me had not yet dulled with time. He modeled the helmet with enthusiasm and invited us to the contents of his fridge. The next morning I took his suggestion of yogurt and granola after making love to my boyfriend on his living room floor.
I remember helping him move out of his dormitory, collecting the sometimes questionable donations our friends had left behind on the pretense that he would be remaining on campus for the summer and might need them. During my stay with him in August a sizable collection of half-emptied shampoo bottles still remained, and I picked through them before making use of his shower. When I returned in January, a few stragglers remained in a crate by his door. I sat in my pajama bottoms and read his comic books in his chair while I waited for my hair to dry, having rejected the filthy bathroom of our host in a rented house nearby.
I refuse to deny the way I might have exploited his affections, for to do so would be base cowardice, and might force me to abandon the memory of tramping through the November snow, my arms full of the comforter I slept beneath while visiting friends, taking a different bed each night to prevent exacerbating my inflamed sense of nostalgia. He insisted on carrying my bags. When I awoke on his couch the next morning, I found that I had twisted in my sleep to arrange myself picturesquely on the pillow, and I wondered if he had seen me, pale shoulders emerging from the covers, and found that I hoped he had, and that the sight had dug hooks into his heart.
I seem to recall a series of parties, held in the dorm he shared with our mutual friends, at which we would get ourselves exuberantly drunk on the generous donations of his next-door neighbor, whose parents supplied him with an assortment of expensive liquors. One night in a darkened room I downed a flaming shot of rum and almost immediately sank to a chair, certain I would be sick. Did he really kneel by my side, shaky eyes seeking out my face? Perhaps I imagined it.
I could swear we exchanged links and videos with regularity until the fortunate young lady entered his life, at which point communication all but ceased. I'm fairly certain he bought his pith helmet after I sent him the address of a purveyor of steampunk couture. It sat on the shelf of his desk when my now-fiance and I visited near the end of the summer of our graduation, when the young man's infatuation with me had not yet dulled with time. He modeled the helmet with enthusiasm and invited us to the contents of his fridge. The next morning I took his suggestion of yogurt and granola after making love to my boyfriend on his living room floor.
I remember helping him move out of his dormitory, collecting the sometimes questionable donations our friends had left behind on the pretense that he would be remaining on campus for the summer and might need them. During my stay with him in August a sizable collection of half-emptied shampoo bottles still remained, and I picked through them before making use of his shower. When I returned in January, a few stragglers remained in a crate by his door. I sat in my pajama bottoms and read his comic books in his chair while I waited for my hair to dry, having rejected the filthy bathroom of our host in a rented house nearby.
I refuse to deny the way I might have exploited his affections, for to do so would be base cowardice, and might force me to abandon the memory of tramping through the November snow, my arms full of the comforter I slept beneath while visiting friends, taking a different bed each night to prevent exacerbating my inflamed sense of nostalgia. He insisted on carrying my bags. When I awoke on his couch the next morning, I found that I had twisted in my sleep to arrange myself picturesquely on the pillow, and I wondered if he had seen me, pale shoulders emerging from the covers, and found that I hoped he had, and that the sight had dug hooks into his heart.