Isn't it strange how little we really know about our friends? We think we know someone, just because we know what their favourite food is, or their favourite colour, or what the film that makes them cry is. But in the end, we can never know what's inside their hearts and souls. Not if we're not really looking. And, at the same time, what can our friends know about us? If
they're
not really looking, that is…
It turns out one particular friend of mine knew me better than I ever thought she could. Actually, she seemed to know me better than I seemed to know myself. But I'm skipping ahead now.
At 21, I was attending the 2
nd
year of my course at Manchester University. Not a particularly interesting course, I'll admit, but one with some promising job opportunities in the future. And it left me enough free time to do stuff I liked. Can't really say I was the poster boy for wild nights and binge drinking. I preferred quiet nights with friends, talking till late, watching movies, joking around… not that I was averse to clubbing or partying, it just wasn't my
forte
.
Women were also a problem. I was extremely shy, to the extent of actually fumbling for words and mumbling incoherently when trying to chat anyone up. The result, most of the time, was that most women I knew found me extremely sweet and liked me as a friend, but rarely did that translate to attraction.
On the other hand, it made me privy to some of their most clandestine conversations; those concerning men. There were quite a few times when I had ended up hanging out with three or four girls in dorm rooms talking about their boyfriends or their troubles with men. As the only representative of the gender, I was often asked to offer sage advice about the enigma that was man. Most of the time, though, I found that I couldn't contribute much because I just didn't seem to think like my fellow guys. My girl friends would go on and on about how their boyfriends didn't understand them, how selfish men are, how none of them really knows how to treat a girl, and I found myself agreeing with them more and more, when I should have been defending my gender. As a result of course, this led to them liking me more and more, and trusting me with their secrets more and more often, just as if I was one of them. Needless to say, this was considered an extremely useful trait by my male friends, who often tried to get into the girls' minds through me. Even though I indulged them sometimes, usually I just refused; I felt I just couldn't betray my girl friends' trust. This in turn worked to make them appreciate my friendship even more.
So there I was, in the middle of two camps, and feeling like I belonged to none. Until I met Diana. Diana was a 19, a 1
st
year student of art history, and one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen. She was petite, with a slender body with smooth, soft curves, dark brown curls that flowed down her back, and beautiful green eyes that complemented a heart-shaped face with a perfect little nose and full pink lips. She loved to wear low-cut jeans and keep her belly exposed with the right tops and shirts. The first time I saw her in one of our night séances with the girls, I was struck dumb. And it kept happening every time I saw her.
I had known her for six months through the other girls, and she already confided away all her boy troubles to the girls – and me. But for me it was different now. I was seriously attracted to that girl. I felt a connection with her that I just couldn't explain. And I thought she must have felt something too, because all the time she seemed to direct conversations to me, going past the rest of the girls.
As the days passed, I realised I couldn't just sit back and do nothing like I had done with other girls I'd liked. I had to tell Diana how I felt about her. She did have a boyfriend at the time, but she sounded so disappointed in him, and I just knew I could be the boyfriend she deserved. So I worked up the courage, and I looked for my chance.
A few months had passed when I saw an opening. Diana's birthday was approaching, and her boyfriend had gone off home for that month. It helped that they had had a really huge fight before he left, a fight I knew all about, of course; since Diana, sure enough, had confided everything to me, along with her girlfriends. That weekend, Diana decided to throw a big party for her birthday. I immediately knew that it was then… or never.
The day of the party I arrived at Diana's and her roommates' house with a couple of friends of mine. I had made sure I looked the best I could that day – fresh jeans, a colorful shirt that a girl had told me brought out the colour of my eyes, my light brown hair painstakingly done. I had spent twenty minutes getting ready, which was probably the longest it'd ever taken.
As soon as we entered the house, we got separated. The place was packed, and the guests were evenly divided in girls and boys, everyone looking as dashing as they could. I looked for Diana immediately, and there she was, getting chatted up by three guys already. Not that I could blame them; she looked absolutely breathtaking. Her dark brown curls were flowing around her face and down her bare shoulders, a tight tube top was struggling to keep her curves in check (and always looking like it was about to fail), and a frilly mini-skirt which left most of her slender legs open to general admiration.
