Dormitory Dom:
I recognize you. It's not a slow or subtle recognition. We never talked, before. Not really.
The few times we interacted, it was because we worked at the same fast-food joint.
In high-school.
Years ago.
No matter what else I remember, we were only ever "professional". At least as far as such jobs go.
"It's good to see you." You say, leaning in for a hug that is far more familiar than I would expect from someone I barely know... but the crowd is my crowd. The friends are my friends. My confusion at your behavior dies there, in the realization that you are here for
me
.
"Why are you here?" I ask softly, my breath heavy over your bare shoulder, and I feel you tense-up.
Was it because you were found-out? Was it the closeness? I can see the red blush in your cheeks creeping along your throat toward the bowl-cut neck outline of your blouse. This isn't something I expected from the likes of you.
You were the confident one. The popular one. I even told you as much, once, that you were smarter than me. Self-deprecating humor aside, I wouldn't think in a million years -- let alone only a handful -- you would fine
me
in
my
crowd... in a different part of the
continent
.
You're not here by accident, and the flash of hesitation in your eyes vanishes -- not before I see it. Not before my observation volleys back at you and your blush deepens. Is my attention part of the reason?
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" You ask, motioning toward the half-den I've converted to my study and gaming office. The humble aspirations of the college dilettante.
"I can spare a minute." I smile the first warm, genuine, nostalgic smile you've seen -- probably all day, if my guess is anywhere near the mark. "What's on your mind?"
Your silence grows louder, pacing the curios and knickknacks on the desk with your fingers as I stand in the entryway. My back muffles only so much of the noise echoing down the hall, the partygoers at this particular barbecue making wagers or placing orders for mixed drinks while friends I don't remember meeting shout hello at my shoulder. Soon, your silence is the only thing I can hear. You keep searching
my
things, desperate to find...
something
.
"What do you want from me?" I almost use your name. For a terrifying moment, I worry I might have forgotten it... but it's there. I could feel the rapid tempo of my pulse in my chest as sweat swelled from my skin -- I tell myself,
I'll blame it on the drink, if anyone asks
.
As if the question itself was a slap, you look me in the eyes. Frightened. Caught. Biting your lip as you frantically look around the room and see... keys. A keyring, tangled and jangling as you pick it up.
My
keys. Not the keys to my home, or my room... but mine. Storage, lockbox, bike chain... my mixed keyring, for extra keys I don't need slapping my hip when I'm walking across campus.
I've never seen such profound relief on your face, like you just escaped some horrific trap of your own making. You've snagged my curiosity along with the keys. I reach into my pocket, feeling the familiar weight of my house keys and car fob.
"You need my keys?" If it's a joke, it's a poor one -- but I try to offer you the benefit of the doubt; you're cleverer than me. "Or just any keys?"
"I need this." You're careful. Deliberate. I can hear the
absence
of inflection. You
believe
someone
else
is listening to everything you say. You're handing me the keys... but not just handing me the keys.
Now I know. At least, I
think
I know... why you're here. For
me
. Still, it doesn't make much sense to show up out of the blue like this... but we'll get to that later.
I look at the key... I have similar keys to this one, but the lettering is clear, blocky print. Not blurred, faded, or scratched into unreadable grooves. It's not just a brand name. It's a title. Either you know exactly which of my locks this key belongs to, or...
"Do you need this key from me?" I lock gazes with you. Long enough you look away as I narrow my eyes. "Or are you needing me to
be
this?"
The last I say low... maybe too low. You don't look up.
"Yes." You reply.
I look at the keys, the one prominently displayed chest-high for my inspection between my thumb and forefinger. The word feels like it's glowing, pulsing in time to the shallow breathing making your chest rise and fall.
"You know what you're asking?" I step into the room, the keys forgotten for the deeper meaning you're reaching for but too afraid to say aloud.
You nod, but just once. You look me in the eyes. Terror. I don't understand why you're so afraid.
You
came to
me
.
I
should be terrified.
