Prudence 1

A Fall Weekend Afternoon.
The Room. Fall 1986


Another Fall weekend afternoon...

I have been staring out the empty street for the past hour; the 2000-page Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine lies opened idly under my arms. At least these pages have not been wrinkled from the dried saliva (...from my dozing off using the book as a pillow) like so many of my other textbooks for the past God-knows-how-many years.

Something about a quiet Fall weekend afternoon always makes my mind wander while I’m trying to read. First of all, I have to read – I already took my break. I had a good-sized brunch, but still was able to go for my usual jog around one p.m. I am supposed to be nice and relaxed and ready to learn more about Congestive Heart Failure.

But I am relaxed. I just can’t concentrate on reading.

So, what else is new?

Gosh! How I wish she were here.

Maybe there... in my old green Salvation Army armchair. She would probably have her legs curled up, since the chair would be too large for her to be comfortable otherwise. She would most probably have a good book in her hands. She loved to read, and I know that she would want to keep me company. And if she were here, I would need a small mirror on my desk to occasionally glance at her. Because my desk is such that my back is toward the armchair, which is in the middle of the room...

...and I wouldn’t want to stop looking at her for too long.

What am I thinking? If she were here, I would care less about sitting at this desk, or about Harrison’s. I would be there, sharing the armchair with her, holding her tight, suffocating her, and suffocating in her scent, never again letting her go.

A neighbor’s car pulling up on the driveway blanks out the little movie screen in my mind. I’m back to the matters at hand, the last thought lingering, "If she were here..."

It’s now four thirty. Dinner will probably be in an hour-and-a-half. There is no way I can read between now and then, despite all my good intentions.

I need another break, badly.

If she were here, we could be taking a walk outside right now…

I throw myself onto the bed. I notice that I feel more heavy now than usual.

Could all these thoughts weigh that much? I guess they must, because I felt like a hummingbird coming into the last mile of my six-mile run just a little while ago. (It’s actually only five and three-quarters miles, as I had measured it by driving my car just the other day along the path that I jog; but I like to claim that it’s six miles – a nice round number, and higher.) I have to confess: sometimes, I start my run just so I can get "runner’s high." It doesn’t always happen though.

Despite all the seemingly endless thoughts, I must have dozed off, because my sister’s voice startles, or rather, wakens me.

"Time for dinner!"

I yell "Thanks" really loud, sort of out of guilt, as if to prove to her that I haven’t been sleeping.

* * *


I share this house with my sister and my cousin, both in college, and a classmate from the medical school; and since it's only a three-bedroom house, I help myself to the huge living room. For my sleeping quarter, literally, I corner off the large room with a screen, sort of like a hanging room divider, that I had made out of a queen-sized bedsheet – I couldn't find a piece of canvas large enough. I have been enamored of the logo of a tiger's face found on the back of the "Flying Tigers" Air Freight trucks. The logo, a close-up stylized black&white drawing of a regal snarling tiger, is startling in its raw strength and beauty -- both, and especially the combination, appealing to me. Some years ago, I found the same logo in a magazine's ad and managed to enlarge the tiger's face and painted it onto the sheet which now serves as the screen. I like the drawing; and because of the size, it looks quite impressive. I'm proud of it even though I am not the original artist.

Behind the tiger's face is my bed; it's actually a mattress laid on the floor. It is now a real mattress since my mother confiscated and gave away the large piece of foam that I had used for the past five or six years since college. The desk I bought at a garage sale is thoughtfully placed at the foot of the bed. I don't have to move too far from the desk before I can crash onto the bed, which is often the case.

At the center is the only piece of social furniture in the room, an old green armchair from a Salvation Army shopping spree. Facing that, of course, my mood-altering device – a compact disc player, conspicuously placed in front of the large French window, and audaciously elevated to eye level when one sits in the armchair. Since the compact disc came out a couple of years ago, I decided that nothing else should be included in my audio system except an amp/pre-amp, a CD player, and a pair of speakers – a good pair of speakers. A good friend graciously donated his integrated amp to me, for which I only had to do some minor repair, and I found a bargain on a pair of speakers of my audio taste. As for the software, I started collecting CD's even before I bought the compact disc player. My first CDs? Yes' "90125" and London Records' Dvorak Symphony No. 9 by Kirill Krondrashin.

Atop the CD player is probably my favorite decorative item in the room. It's a leafless branch of manzanita which I was fortunate to have collected during the month of my externship in Family Medicine in Yosemite Valley. One evening that month, I was about to watch a movie video at one of the clinic docs' house. We needed firewood, and though reluctant, he was contemplating using the beautifully naturally-sculpted branch for fire. I asked, almost out of hysteria, and was glad to have saved it.

The ashgrey-to-black branch is accented with its natural swirls of a mildly deep red, flowing smoothly around knots of varying sizes, like a gentle stream navigating its rocky bed, splitting and coalescing. The main trunk, about an inch in diameter, rises easily somewhat vertically and then turns horizontally, giving rise to three smaller side branches, also streaming horizontally from both sides of the main trunk. These then give rise to several smaller vertically-risen branches, as well as other still horizontal branches. A side branch travels a short distance with the main horizontal branch, then flows toward the observer, taking a slight dip; it then gently rises shortly vertically, and finally arches horizontally backward in the opposite direction of the main branch. The many small twigs are epitome of rustic and simplistic beauty in and of themselves. All in a perfectly aesthetically balanced, but yet precarious, arrangement.

The end opposite my bed and desk is the weight bench, which I find useful and therapeutic when I get restless. For a while last year, I was quite conscientious about pumping iron; or, in my case, pumping aluminum maybe more apt. The wall next to the bench houses a poster of the other of my two favorite animals. This one is also a copy that I made from the mascot of a nephew's old school. The shadow of a mustang was enlarged and painted onto yet another bedsheet. I used white paint on a deep-blue background on this one; whereas the tiger's face was painted with a simple black-white contrast.

The rest of the walls are decorated with a few posters that I have collected throughout the years. One of them is the photograph by Steve Steigman from that classic Lars Anderson's Maxell cassette tape commercial. It featured a tousled-haired, leather-jacketed man being wind-blown in his armchair by the music from the speakers in front of him. (I believe it was Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries".) I find myself in this position and playing that scenario quite often; I guess that's why I like it so much. The other poster I had bought way back when I was a freshman in college. It's a black-and-white charcoal drawing of a nude woman barely covering herself in a semi-kneeling position, ducking from a cross wind, her wind-blown hair and her shoulder partially covering her pretty face. I'm almost certain that she is pretty.

The rest of room is littered with textbooks, notes, handouts, unread medical literature ("junk mail"), and, last but not least, various clothing items that should really belong in a laundry basket. I try to keep my room tidy, I guess it gives me a sense of control over myself, but the cleaning schedule is far from ideal. My room would look "nice" only once every four or six weeks. Despite that, I am proud of it. I introduce my room to close friends as if I want them to meet my character, or at least part of it. Somehow, I see in the room a lot of myself. People can probably read a thing or two about me if they just simply observe the room.

* * *

Time to get up and eat.

I'm not that hungry, but I know that I'll regain my voracious appetite (so it seems to my sister) as soon as I savor the first few bites. Sometimes, the oral phase will take over if the cephalic phase has been overwhelmed by other thoughts, like now.

Dinner is simple but good, as usual.

My sister and my cousin do the cooking, and I do the dishes. Sometimes I would cook; I am not that bad, but I seem to take twice as long, and invariably end up with at least about three times as big a mess. Since they would rather eat the stuff that they cook themselves, and since they definitely don't want to clean up my mess, the usual arrangement seems to work best.

I spend a good hour-and-a-half at the dinner table. The dishes are essentially clean by now; maybe all they need is a good lick and they should be ready to be restacked into the cupboards. My sister gives me a most dramatic look of disgust at that comment. I take care of the dishes quickly. Yes, hot water, detergent, then warm water for rinsing – no licking. I'm quite good at this job, and usually don't mind it.

Finishing the last dish, I reward myself with a glass of cranberry juice, with plenty of ice, and manage to ignore the TV. If I succumb to the temptation of turning on that idiot-box now, I would end up wasting the whole evening, and would feel quite foolish later on. I really haven't done much reading today, if any.

Back in my room, with the glass of the burgundy juice in hand, I sink into the armchair after loading Dvorak's Symphony No. 9 CD, which thus far has remained my favorite. Before pushing the "Play" button, I remember the house rule and dash to my sister's and cousin's rooms. Sticking my head through the crack of their doors, I request, "Hey guys! How about five minute of sound?" "Go for it!" says my sister. My cousin doesn't seem to mind either; same with my classmate, who actually has more insulation from the loud music which I'm about to play.

Here we go! I give the CD tray a gentle push after loading; the CD player quickly inhales the shiny disc with a short and pleasant hissing sound. I like the sight of that pure mechanical efficiency, appreciating the electronic wizardry behind the scene. I guess I want to enjoy every minute of this extended experience.

I have dimmed all the lights. It's dark outside by now, and with the curtains drawn, the only lights I want on are those from the integrated amp and the CD player itself.

Volume knob to level five. I lean back, feet up, totally relaxed.

I push selection number four on the remote control, skipping the first three movements, and...PLAY.

The string section opening the powerful chord of the fourth movement instantly places me in zero gravity and immerses me in an ocean of sounds. The effect seems to have been heightened thanks to the anticipation through which I deliberately subject myself.

With the volume knob at five, the music is loud. The windows can rattle at this volume if I were to play Tchaikovsky's 1812 on the Telarc disc, which recorded real cannon sound for the spectacular last four minutes of the overture, and which is faithfully reproduced by the each of the 12-inch woofers of my speakers. Bathing in the music, I let my mind soar with the powerful rhythm of the string and the horn sections.

I feel incredibly light. It would be nice if I can continue the rest of the movement, but before I really have an out-of-body experience, I turn the volume down to keep my words.

With the CD player off, my room is unusually quiet, and dark.

The red juice tart in my mouth. The glass icy cold in my hand.

March 26, 1981...

That date is again on my mind.


* * *


The Dorm. The Cafeteria. The Library.

After the first year at Sproul Hall, one of the four undergraduate dorms at UCLA, I moved out to an apartment with friends of the family. Actually, brothers of my brother's fiancee, to be exact. My future sister-in-law also shared the apartment with us; she was in professional school at our rivalry institution across town. Although my future sister-in-Iaw frequently treated all of us to her exquisite home-cooking on the weekends, I didn't want to deal with the cooking hassle during the weekdays, so I bought meal plans to eat at one of the dorms. Even though I like Sproul better, I chose Dykstra Hall because it was a shorter walk – an uphill walk – from the bus stop at the campus’ perimeter.

Fall 1980 was a somewhat busy quarter. Single-minded and conscientious, I chopped away at the seemingly long ten-weeker, studying hard and making good grades. But I was never too busy to let my mind wander as my eyes roamed, my age-old habit.

There were plenty of pretty girls at UCLA, and at least a good many dozens in Dykstra. About ninety percent of them were out of my reach, belonging to the fantasy realm. That left only a few that I truly was interested in, with a desire to meet them, if I ever learned how to, or managed to get enough courage. And as long as, yes, as long as, they didn't already have boyfriends. My love life had consistently been one of boy meets girl; when boy finally musters up enough courage to ask girl out, girl says girl already has boyfriend; boy feels like a fool.

She was one of those few. But she also had a boyfriend.

* * *

Can, Phil, and I liked to sit near the food line. As we ate, chatted, made jokes, we also played judges to a candid-camera styled beauty contest.

"Ooh! An eight!" Can said.

That's the lowest he had given to any girl thus far as the people exited the food line with their trays. Of course there were twos and threes, but it's almost understood that we didn't have to mention them.

"NOW… SHE’s a ten!" said one of us as she came out.

Was it I? Couldn't have been. I always thought that she was too skinny. But a ten by one of us made the other two heads swiveled up as if operated by springs and the respective lenses zoomed toward the door.

Now I really noticed. She is pretty.

"She's got a boyfriend, you know?" Can reported. How did he know so much? "I've seen her with an American guy.”

Funny how we still referred to the Americans as if they were foreigners. Vietnamese can be quite biased people. And I am a perfect example of one with that comment.

Oh well. There goes another bird. Caged. We joked, and laughed, probably at ourselves.

From that day on, I seemed to run into her more often in the cafeteria. Of course, she never knew that I existed. I found myself glancing at her table frequently. She usually sat alone.

A loner – like me. Good. I would be easily intimidated otherwise.

But what was I thinking or dreaming about? She's got a boyfriend.

One day, late into the Fall quarter, not that it was a glorious day, or even a spectacularly memorable one, but at least it was when we were formally introduced to each other.

Through a few common acquaintances at the same lunch table, I learned her name, Jenny. Pretty name. For a pretty face. She was only a freshman – I was a big sophomore then.

Seeing that she had just finished leafing through the schedule of classes for Winter quarter, I tried to start a conversation, asking with an air of arrogance of an upper-class man, "May I borrow your schedule of classes?"

With half a smile, and without a word, she handed me the booklet. I leafed through and stopped at a spot where I knew exactly what I would find: the ID numbers, times, and locations of the courses I had just finished enrolling; thanks to my Regents scholarship, I had the benefit of enrolling before the general campus population. I knew all that and of course didn't need the booklet.

Without faking any further, I handed back the schedule of classes and managed my best smile (I didn't have one) to say thanks – there were a few too many people there. She finished her meals and excused herself to leave.

The next day, I missed her at breakfast; she was a bit late. I managed to cross her path on the way out of the cafeteria to say hello. Then at lunch time, there she was, reading the school newspaper, the Daily Bruin.

"May I?" I asked politely as I approached with my food tray.

"Sure, please..." She responded pleasantly.

We started an easy conversation, which was rare for me. A pretty girl like her usually didn’t make conversation too easy for me; I was too self-conscious. I guess my knowledge of her already having a boyfriend made things easier – I didn’t have to impress her, or so I tried to convince myself.

I am not sure what we talked about, but I'm certain it was pleasant.

We met again at dinner. And then, the following days, and weeks of Winter quarter, we met invariably at least once a day. Meals became more enjoyable, the food remaining the same quality, or non-quality.


* * *


I liked her.

There was no doubt. But there certainly was a lot of denying.

I found myself looking for her in the cafeteria every time. This wasn't hard despite the relatively large size of Dykstra's cafeteria because "our spot" was in the far corner. And if I got there first, she would find me there, initially formally opening our conversation with a polite, "May I?" before she sat, as I did the first time we sat alone together.

One time, I commented on her politeness after her usual "May I?", and she admitted that she was surprised (impressed?) that I used the word "may" that first time. "Most people would say 'Can I' instead." She commented. I returned the compliment, noting that she would appropriately say "Not I," instead of "Not me."

Day after day, I became used to her company. If I could not see her at a meal, something was amiss. I cannot say the same for her, but I think now that she also started to like me, at least to some infinitesimal degree, even then.

We also began to walk to campus together after meals to our respective classes. It was just a matter of good timing, and lots of luck. Her classes were of about the same time schedule as mine.

During this whole time, however, I was being painfully conscious of the fact that somewhere sometime between meal times, and even during some of the meals for which she bagged her lunch, she was with her boyfriend.

I found myself riding the clouds in her presence for one moment, and then reflecting the situation the next. There were times when I saw her with her boyfriend on campus; I would manage to avoid them, or, when I could not, to say a quick "hi" and then went on a separate way.


* * *


I wasn't the only guy who liked her among the group of acquaintances at Dykstra. There was a Chinese-Vietnamese guy, whose name escaped my mind, who was madly in love with her, so much that it essentially externalized all over his eyes and face, and streamed out of his flustered words and actions whenever he was around her. And there was Paul, a Chinese guy, who probably was equally in love, but who was more subtle. I was glad that she would talk openly to me about these guys. At least this means that she found me someone in whom she could confide.

And then, of course, there was Alvin. Alvin was a neutral kind of guy – the everybody's friend type. I had met Alvin since the previous year when I was a freshman. He was Filipino, same ethnic background as she, and I remember introducing him to her as her "countryman." Alvin was a quiet, pleasant friend to whom I could, and often did, freely open myself. He later became a catalyst for making things happen between her and me – without my knowing it until still much later.

It was to Alvin that I vented the feelings I have for her. After we all had met, we were the usual threesome at meal times, even though I knew Alvin frequently considerately avoided us.

One day, as she was leaving early after a lunch, I stayed and talked with Alvin, who was in his usual non-judgmental way.

"She is pretty," I said after she had left. “But too bad, she already has a boyfriend," I wistfully added.

Alvin didn't say anything, but there was a gleam in his eyes; he seemed to understand something, or be thinking about something.

I added, half-jokingly, "I think I would like to live in the Philippines. The women are pretty, and they speak English."

"Nah. I think you'd be better off here," said he.

"Yeah? Then how come I always run into women who already have boyfriends?"

It was true. Ever since I could remember from my first crush in high school, all the girls with whom I secretly or not so secretly fell in love had had boyfriends.

There was that gleam in his eyes again.

From that day on, she and I seemed to be somewhat closer. She seemed to want to walk to campus more often with me, even if she didn't have classes that day, or that afternoon. "I need to see my T.A." She explained.

Whatever...


* * *


The tendency to impress the person one likes encountered no immunity in myself. Consciously, I tried not to show off to her, something of which I had unfortunately witnessed some sad examples whenever we sat at the same table with Paul or especially the other guy who was in love with her.

My subconscience, however, was like anybody else's subconscience, and my superego had yet to adequately keep a lid on it. I had to play hero a few times.

One time at lunch, she mentioned that she had to walk back to campus to ask for help on one of her calculus homework. We were sitting among the acquaintances that day. The table was full, and people were commenting on how hard those homework could get.

I seized the moment and offered, "If you would let me, I could go through the homework with you."

She seemed hesitant, but then agreed to it, probably out of politeness.

So, after that lunch, I followed her upstairs to her dormroom. Unlocking her door, she seemed awkward.

I sensed her delicate subtlety, and suggested, "I'll meet you in the floor's common lounge."

She seemed relieved, and moments later, joined me with her books and notepads in hands.

I quickly went through the appropriate section in the chapter to refresh my memory, and then started to attack the homework. Thank God, it wasn't too difficult. I was pretty good in math anyway. I went through the analysis step-by-step and explained the solution.

I thought I did a good job. So did she.

She was impressed, and I swelled with pride.

Closing the book, I remarked, pretending a disdainful look, "It's kid's stuff."

We laughed.

She looked so pretty.

I felt good. Very good.


* * *


I started thinking about her in her absence and at night. My conscience was weighing on me heavily. I would try unsuccessfully to distance my closeness to her.

At the same time, she also seemed to become closer to me. We spent more time talking than eating at meal time, and we found ourselves settling for an empty table instead of looking for other acquaintances.

She rarely studied at the library, but that was about to change also.

As for myself, I pretty much camped out in the library. I was not necessarily proud of that. I just was not as smart as some of my classmates, who were doing ten things at the same time, spent a fraction of the time reading comparing to me, made good grades, and still had some extra spending money from their twenty-hour-a-week "part-time" job.

Joe, a good friend of mine, was one of those. One quarter, he had eighteen units, all of which science classes, including eight hours of organic chemistry lab and four hours of biology lab, was working, and he "couldn't understand why" he ended up with "just" a B in Physics. I told him that I myself could not understand that either. He was one of those people who had been endowed with more than enough brain cells – and synapses that worked. I had the utmost respect for people like him.

There was a spot in the library that I used to prefer. This was of no secret, but if one did not know where a person sat in the many reading rooms of the Powell Library building, one would have a hard time finding that person.

One day, Paul, the Chinese guy, asked me where he could find me to borrow a class note.

"First floor. No, not the basement. Toward the right-hand side as one walked into the main entrance, yes up the short stairs, and toward the end-corner. Yes, the non-smoking section."

This was over meal time, and she was there also. My eyes caught hers, but she looked away, as if she wasn't paying attention. Up to this point, we had not studied together, except for that one time I played the math professor.

That coming Saturday afternoon, I was semi-conscious in my usual spot, trying to read Biochemistry. There was a tap on my shoulder. I woke up but managed not to act startled. Learning to fall asleep and wake up in public, while studying, was an act that I was mastering. I did not fully turn around when her pretty face came into full view, and in close-up. The most beautiful dream couldn't have been better.

Did I mention that she was pretty?

She had a small faint nevus just over the top of her upper lip toward the right side. Her smile beaming, her eyes sparkling. Her teeth were even as a perfect row of corn on the cob, adorning the ready-to-smile lips. Her hair was silky black just short of shoulder length, framing her delicate facial features.

That day, she had her hair up in a pony-tail. I especially liked her that way. Somehow, her oblong face was enhanced in a simple but elegant way by her hair being swept back close to her scalp. And the pony-tail was in itself a simplistic loveliness that was she.

"May I bug you?" She asked.

"Sure… How?" I was still regaining my consciousness, despite acting like I was awake all along.

"How??" She laughed gently, then added, keeping her voice low, "May I borrow your Hi-liter?"

"Yes, please, help yourself." I handed it to her.

"Yellow! No. Do you have pink?"

"Pink!! No way. I don't use pink!"

"Well... That's okay." She smiled again and went back to her seat, which was not too far away from mine. (How long had she been there?? Was she observing me while I was sleeping in my chair??)

I went back to my reading... So I tried.

Thoughts came flying through my mind, "A PINK Hi-liter! I didn't even know such a thing exists."

After half an hour of reading the same sentence, and toying with my YELLOW Hi-liter, I got up and went for a stroll.

It was nice outside. Sunny. And the air was brisk. February in LA, where people could tan themselves in their backyards. Without thinking much about it, I headed toward Ackerman Students' Union.

And it occurred to me. Why not?

I went into the Students' Store and bought a pink Hi-liter, then headed back to the library.

Approaching her desk, I held the Hi-liter behind my back as if it were a bouquet of flowers. She either ignored me or was deep in her reading. By the time she looked up, I was by her side, almost kneeling.

"Here you go... A pink Hi-liter." I handed it to her.

She looked startled, then a bright smile beamed across her face, "Thank you."

That was truly a unique audiovisual experience for me. Looking at her smiling face, especially those grateful eyes, and hearing her voice thanking me... The most beautiful dream couldn't top this one either.

"You're welcome." I replied, then went back to my seat.

I felt absolutely wonderful, but really did not know what else to do, or say, so I just... went back to my seat. I must not have read very much, because her face, her smile, and her voice must have been waltzing in my mind.

Was she also thinking of me?

We walked back to the dorm together that evening for dinner. The incredible closeness was uneasy. We parted after dinner; she had had enough reading for one day. I had not. How could I have?


* * *


By then she knew where I studied. She eventually also frequented my other favorite place, the Periodical Room inside Powell Library itself, next to the Audiovisual Room.

Oh yes, the Periodical Room. Where short breaks easily engulfed one to two hours of reading "Car & Driver," or "Road & Track," or "MotorTrend." Got to fantasize about being inside a Lamborghini Countach, or a Lotus Esprit, and doing a zero-to-sixty, without having to shift into third, once in a while.

So now the library, the corner on that first floor, as well as the Periodical Room, all of the sudden became her favorite places to study, too.

One Saturday evening, she accompanied me back to the library after dinner. There must have been some sort of event, or perhaps it was a holiday weekend, because the whole library building was closed and locked by the time we got back from the dorm. I had not known this, and had left my backpack inside the building. Needless to say, I found myself in an awkwardly funny situation.

I noticed that a window of one of the reading rooms in the ground floor was still opened.

"Wanna see an acrobatic act?" I winked to show her that window.

"What are you going to do?" She probably thought that I was about to do something stupid.

"Well. I have to get to my backpack somehow."

Swinging through the opened window, I got inside without any problem. I found my backpack intact (i.e., books not stolen) in the first floor reading room. On the way back to the ground floor window, I met a guy, somewhat disheveled, and definitely panicked; he seemed to just have been running up and down the stairs.

"How do I get out of here? I mean, how did you get in here?" He asked in a rapid-fire fashion, almost astonished to see me.

I tried not to laugh, or appear amused. The guy probably fell asleep and was locked in when the building was closed. And from his look and panic, I would guess that he had been looking for a way out for quite a while. I showed him the way out through the window. Jenny met us outside, obviously relieved when she saw me. She became hysterical when I later explained to her the poor guy's plight.

So then we had nowhere to study. We could go back to the dorm's cafeteria, which was opened at night for studying; she suggested, and I agreed. We took our time strolling back on Bruin Walk. It was a clear night, and the stars were out by this time. It would have been a perfect evening under different circumstances.

"This would be a nice evening to sit on top of Janss steps. I used to do that." I remarked matter-of-factly.

"Why don't we do that?" She asked, equally matter-of-factly.

Yeah! Why didn't it occur to me? I mentioned it, but I didn't mean to suggest that we would do it – at least not consciously.

I knew very well why.

I had been consciously trying to avoid any situation which could bring us closer than we already were becoming. Or, more precisely, any romantic setting.

Sitting on top of Janss steps on a starry night like this with someone like her had always been my dream.

Someone like her, but not her.

She already has a boyfriend.

But I didn't fight it.

And it was as I had always imagined: MAGICAL.

The moon wasn't out, but I could still see her face with the few lamps nearby. She was enjoying it as well, I could tell.

We just sat there, watching the star-studded sky, and the lights from the three visible dorms – Hedrick Hall was hidden by the pine trees on a hill.

"There is the Big Dipper!" She pointed.

"The what?" I was truly ignorant.

"The Big Dipper. See, that's the handle, and there is the cup." She outstretched her arm to show me.

Yeah, sure. I wouldn't know where to begin analyzing the stars in the sky; looking is about as far as I went, and they all looked the same to me. And if I really wanted to see it, I would have to align my sight along the direction of her arm. And that would bring my head dangerously close to hers. And I hate to imagine what could have happened. I was already half-way drunk from her scent.

I eased myself out of that situation, "Yes, professor."

It was I who reminded us to get back to the dorm, she seemed to still want to stay.

Back in the cafeteria, I made myself comfortable at a large rectangular table in the middle of the room. I did not expect, nor did I assume, that she would share the same table with me; but of course, she did, after some subtle hesitation. She probably was equally self-conscious and equally observant of the fact that most of the students in that room had a table for himself or herself – except for the two tables, each with a couple, one of them in a rather intimate position, obviously not studying. Books anyway.

No big deal. We were there to study, right?

And study I did, amazingly blocking out the images from Janss steps.

And then the evening took a turn.

After an hour or so of reading, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw her looking up, but she did not look back down again.

I turned around, and there... was her boyfriend approaching our table from the entrance, behind him was her roommate. He must have come to her room, and the roommate must have shown him down here. (Thanks a lot!)

No big deal. I came here to study, right?

He helped himself to the seat next to her, just obliquely across from me. I gave him a quick nod acknowledging his presence and saying hello, then continued to intensify my concentration. They whispered something, and both began to read.

Five minutes of that arrangement seemed like an eternity.

This ain't gonna work...

And I ain't gonna sit here pretending like nothing has happened and pretending like I am making such great progress reading, or rather spelling, the same three or four words or so. Thank you very much for your invitation to stay, but I really gotta go; I only have my life to straighten out here.

Again, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw that she was visibly uneasy, and finally, slowly rested her head onto her arms in front of her on the table. The goodnight-I-am-going-to-sleep-I-cannot-believe-what-is-happening position.

Without making a big fuss, and the slightest of noise, I gathered my stuff and slowly got up to leave.

He glanced up just about the same time as she lifted her head. I gave one nod and whispered, "Goodnight."

Not wanting to make it look like I was in any hurry to leave, I wandered over to another table to say hello to someone I had just recognized. I barely knew that guy, but I shook his hand like nobody's business, like two long-lost friends, and chatted for a bit before making my big-relief exit.

I tried not to think about the eventful evening on the bus ride home. I must have felt asleep that night out of exhaustion. The emotional extremes of that one short evening must have weighed down my head and my heart like a ton of bricks.