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.
"Kneel." I say, feeling the word pulled out of the depths of my chest by your
presence
.
Folding down to kneeling before me, you're so quick it's like you were dropped. I see the fear mixing with relief. Why is there also gratitude? It's too early for gratitude. We haven't even
begun
.
"Sit down." I motion you to
my
favorite chair, electing to cast myself haphazardly into a beanbag chair in the corner where I can watch the door and you at the same time.
"I can't do this half-way." I frown at you, scratching at my chin. I haven't shaved in a couple days, but my stubble's not as coarse as it will be (someday). "You have to know that. I can't do this by half-measures... if you're not absolutely
certain
about this..."
Someone is rounding the corner in the hall, and you sit upright -- your face full of delicate reproach to hide a shameful anger.
"Do you think this is the place to have that conversation?" Your trying too hard to be glib -- I can see it in the way you're gripping the arm of the chair.
"Have what conversation?" Generic college hipster dude, with whom I'm only casually acquainted, leans into the room and looks back and forth between us. "Certain about what?"
"Certain about
anything
!" I wave grandly, looking vaguely bored and benevolent -- or I hope so, anyway. "And why shouldn't we talk about how certain we are, in life? What difference does it make where we are? Is anyone really certain of anything? Tests, jobs, relationships... none of it serves being dealt in half-measures."
"Ok, dude." My hipster acquaintance chuckles and shakes his head. "The guys were asking if you have more beer."
"I'm afraid you'll have to procure it elsewhere." I sigh heavily, quite put-upon, and stand up. "Of that, I'm
quite
certain."
As he leaves, I make a stern face, motioning for you to stand. I point to the door ajar leading to my bedroom. With an overly apologetic voice, I'm almost shouting for the unintended audience who now can't help but eavesdrop.
"Alas, no more alcohol here either, my dear!" I snap my fingers, tugging you out of your seat by the motion of a single disapproving digit. Twisting my wrist, I send you silently to my room.
I close the door behind me, dulling the rumbling voices and music into a murmur. I can
hear
you breathing, now. Your blushing quickens my pulse, but I'm still ruffled by your apparent hesitancy. You want this, but you don't want this...
"I can't do this half-way." I say again, but my voice lacks the harsh edge from earlier. It's the voice of a parent cradling their injured spawn. A friend wrapped in lost-love's first grieving.
"I know." You say, but you only say it with your mouth. Your body
doesn't
know. Your body is crying out
