“Who is that?” I wondered. And I’d honestly had no idea; for at the time, Roach House was abounding with brand-new members who were moving in for the school year. Previously vacant, the room that enclosed the unknown figure had been vacant since early July.
But then I’d gone back to my writing. I’m not a perv, so it’s not like I’d stood there and rubbed one out to the shade that had captured my fancy. And I’m also not much of a poet: blatant rip-offs, the kind of poems I had penned that night would earn me the nickname “Faux-delaire.”
But my name was still off in the future. Because that’s when I was seen as a “genius;” and being a jerk, I had reveled in that title, though I’d secretly thought that it might be a glaring misnomer. Deeply insecure, I had drowned my doubts with a surly bravado that had just made me that much more unpleasant.
Because didn’t the girls love my writing? And likewise, hadn’t they all praised the atonal crap that spewed from my electric guitar? Well, the proof was there in the pudding: if not saying it, innumerable mouths had confirmed the same with an application of kisses.
And that’s why it was weird that I panicked. Because there was a face that went with that shadow; and the next day, I was swept by a wave of giddiness when I beheld its shape in the daylight. Achingly pretty, it had set off a slew of inanities as I’d welcomed her into the co-op.
But I must’ve said something winning. I’m not handsome, and with my broken nose and broad Irish face, you could even say that I’m ugly. And so something I said made her like me: in fact, whatever it was had got me her number, and in a couple of weeks we were dating.
And how do you describe being in love? Because as I’ve said, I am not a genius; but if I was, I would gladly relate how impossibly happy the next ten months of my life were. Mutually smitten, I had adored who she was and even her foibles as much as her heavenly face.
And there’s so many things I remember. They’re crystal clear, which is pretty remarkable for how much we partied and how I’ve continued to do so. And nor are most of these painful: though they were, the passage of years has numbed their ache, and I’m grateful for just having known her.
So for instance, I can still hear her laughter. Because her voice was melodic yet husky; and in the same vein, I can remember how she’d snore when her jet-black hair would cover my shoulder and pillow. Also, I can recall her hand as it bandaged my face while I’d bled from getting my ass kicked.
But some things will always be painful. They just will, though they only come to mind when it’s about to storm, as it is here in sultry Ann Arbor. Because we’re obviously not together: as I said earlier, I’m dealing with dating in a college town when I’m thirty and accordingly ancient.
And it was hardly a pleasant break-up. Because love was in no way the issue; and to her credit, she was the one who broke things off because she was a much better person. Unlike me, she had actually wanted to help the world instead of just being a waste-oid.
Because she told me she was joining the Peace Corps. She was bawling, and she had sworn up and down that she would always love me but it was something she’d had to do. But I wasn’t at all sympathetic: out of the blue, the news had come in early June and to say the least I was shattered.
About James Curtiss
