She made me who I am. You can call me a womanizer, an asshole, a sorry son of a bitch, whatever! More times than not, you’re probably right. I’m not saying I’m always wrong, nor am I justifying my chronology of romantic encounters. I am not blaming her as much as I am stating the clear fact. She made me who I am.
We met again on the bridge that separated the dormitories. A rocky, dry creekbed split athletic dorm and druggy dorm from that of the frats, honors, and sororities. We met during the first week of my sophomore year. On the night, before we met again on the bridge, I saw her in the internet cafe, built just months before. In a way I met her that night. I sat across the table as she played domino with a couple of mutual friends, a couple of guys I’d met the year before. Her eyes danced whenever she spoke and when she smiled, it seemed like air and aura, wind and wonder flow through her hair. I was awestruck on sight. She was dressed in baggy clothes, so her top heavy figure was disguised, but her face caught the attention of everyone that entered the room. I won’t even attempt to explain how I felt when I finally saw her naked tits. But I didn’t know her then and as it was for me back then, I didn’t speak to girls unless they spoke first, and so it was on that night. I might have managed to say a witty line at some time or another, but on that night, I just admired her, and imagined everything that could be. My notions were so fucking wrong. On that day, the next day on the bridge, we truly met and our saga began.
I saw her 1000 feet before we stepped to each other on the bridge. I saw her before she left her dorm. I’d intentionally walked in the direction of it when my classes ended, hoping only to get another glimpse of her. I felt my heartbeat faster when I stared up into the dorm windows and coincidentally, saw her trotting the flights of stairs. I watched her as she exited the dorm and moved toward the bridge, pacing my steps to meet her in the middle of it. She was dressed in brown tights and a white shirt, like an equestrian might wear. “What’s up dude? Ryan right? What’s good with it?”
“I’m good. Alex, right? How’s class going?” Damn. Lame, I thought.
We talked for no more than a minute, but it was a heavy conversation full of compliments and flattery and empty promises and deep connecting gazes. I probably went to my room and jerked off. Happy as a kitten would be a trite understatement. After my freshmen year of being a depressed and angry sack of shit, I finally felt a reason to get out of bed and go to class and waste time in the bookstore and the cafeteria and join the clubs and go to the football games and enjoy all of the other things you are supposed to enjoy in college. She made me who I am, and that was the first time she affected me. My life is split before and after she arrived.
And now she has arrived again.