By the end of the week i was grossly in love, and practically certain I’d never see her again.
She never came out of the building I found her in the day before- I even waited.
I looked harder for her than I’d ever looked for anything. I walked into the street because I never looked where I was going.
I tried to sneak her into everything. I changed my walk to every class, trying to find her. Looked at everyone I passed. Like a creeper. Really thought I saw her a few times. And I hung out outside. Really, I loitered. I should’ve gotten a chair and hung out at the corner.
Just one more time, though. She had to come back.
I thought I saw her one time. She looked me dead in the eyes, and I was frozen in place- I bet I drooled. She had this shameless spark of of electric blue light in her eyes only I could see. Time froze. Her clothes were filthy, she was filthy. She was sitting on a park bench with half a dozen other homeless people. It was the luckiest thing in the world. I couldn’t believe it for a second.
I didn’t see her again, even for a second after that. I swear I thought I dreamed her.
I thought seeing her- I knew by then that I didn’t know her real name, so I wouldn’t even try to find the right one- was the last of me and my right mind, so I did everything to give up on her.
So I went drinking that night- and I guess one doesn’t really ‘go drinking’ alone, one just drinks alone. But I drank alone, and felt a little worse. It was some absurd place with pretentious food and fancy chick drinks. The bartender kept pushing margaritas. I was the only black man who had ever set foot in there, and absolutely everyone knew it.
Rebecca had to come pick me up,
“Thanks, Beck.” I mumbled, finishing my third expensive chick drink. She had to carry me out to her car. “You da bomb, bro.”
“Whatever, bro.” She left the car running to drag out of the car before I puked. It was totally coming. She propped me up against the door to get into my dorm before she left.
And then I puked my guts out.
“Had a fun night?” She whispered, squatting next to me. Miley-Rose-Anastasia-bitch handed me a fistful of napkins and grimaced. I took them unhappily, laying on my side on the stone steps.
“It was the the mango juice. It’s the devil.”
“So I hear.” She sat me up.
“So you’re back?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means for now.”
“So do you want me to get you upstairs?”
“Please.” She dead lifted me up under my arms and brought me inside. We both almost fell off the bed, laughing. Whoever was next door banged on the wall and yelled when I knocked the lamp over with my foot.
She took my gross puke-covered shirt off of me, and I got so embarrassed I thought I would explode.
Then she threw a clean one at me and I relaxed.
“Just lay down.” I didn’t feel like arguing.
“What’s your name.”
She didn’t answer.
“Well?” I asked, staring at her. She sat at my desk and stared back.
“Don’t have one.”
“How do you not have a name?”
“I dunno. Haven’t gotten around to it, maybe. What should my name be?”
“I don’t-” I yawned, “I don’t know.”
“Alright. I’ll ask when you’re sober.”
She didn’t have to remind me again.