I could honestly lose myself for a lifetime in her gleaming green eyes, her curled, light brown hair that moved perfectly in the wind. And those legs. They didn't hurt either. So perfect, from her long, lean thighs, her tight calves, her pretty, girly painted toes, only outdone by her warm, genuine smile that made you feel like you were the center of the universe. God...but I guess that was Layla, after all.
Maybe I should explain. It was my first time away from home. I was finally out of high school, out of the small town of less than a thousand I had spent my entire life in, knowing everybody and everybody knowing me and all that jazz. Well, actually, it would have been nice if people knew me, or at least noticed me. I wasn't exactly the prom queen; in fact, I remember skipping my prom (i.e. nobody asked me to go) after the debacle of having to go to homecoming with the boy next door who was weirder than I was, who turned an entirely new and undiscovered shade of red when he couldn't stop "poking" me in the leg while we slow danced. But damn it, I was sort of pretty in my own right, y'know, in a bookish, cute, short-haired librarian girl-nerd kinda way (see also: "socially awkward adolescence"). So my head was buried deep in required chicklit/flicks. I was way more into drawing and "Ghost World" than I was Dolce or Gabbana. Needless to say I didn't identify with being a girly girl cheerleader. But part of me did want to experience college life, to be part of the dumb crowd once and a while and have some fun. So moving to the Bay Area was a dream, a chance to maybe start over new, come out of my shell. Yeah, that lasted about 10 seconds after arriving on campus with dad in tow.
"Remember what I said, Francesca?"
"Ugh, no boys," I said, rolling my eyes. "I know, pop."
"No boys," he said as he gave me a hug and kissed me on the forehead. He opened the door of my new dorm room, and, as all good noir film detectives say when they meet their red dress-clad femme fatale for the first time, "There she was...". Except she was wearing a baggy light blue hoodie, headphones on, apparently rocking out on the air guitar.
"Oh, sorry!" the rocker said as she stoop up and took off her iPod. "I'm Layla, I guess you're my new roommate?"
"Yes, this is my daughter, Francesca-"
"Frankie," I interjected, wanting to at least be somewhat cool, as far as first impressions go.
"Well, I guess I should get going," said my complete dork of a dad after an agonizingly awkward beat and finally sensing my embarrassment. "You two girls stay out of trouble."
"We will, sir," said Layla to my surprise. "I'll make sure of it." And with a smile he left and closed the door behind him, leaving us to get better acquainted.
"So do you have a last name, Frankie, my dear?"
"De Luca," I answered a bit shyly, feeling a bit uncool.
"Hey, don't worry about the parent thing," she said, as if she could read me like an open book. "Everyone's new to somewhere sometime, and everyone's got parents."
"Thanks, I guess."
"I'm Layla, Layla Naim Zamurrad."
"Cool, because that's not a way more interesting name at all...," I said, trying to be at least somewhat funny.
"Ha. Well, I guess we should get you unpacked," she said. "You can have this bed." Layla picked up my suitcase and opened it up, to my apprehension.
"'kay. Let me guess...art major?"
"Yeah," I said. "That or film. How could you tell?"
"Because I have never seen so many boring clothes since my last roommate," she laughed. "She practically spent 2 whole years wearing sweats!"
"Dude, you're wearing sweats!" I said, in defense of my functional, comfy but socially unsexy and boring wardrobe.
"I just came back from a jog, and I always jam out afterwards," said Layla, still smiling from ear to ear at my expense. I was blushing a bit.
"Mind if I change?" she asked.
"No, it's cool," I said as I turned my head, putting my hand over the side of my eyes to block out my peripheral vision.
"You don't have to turn around," she said as she pulled off her hoodie. "It's not like I've got anything you don't have." I decided to call her bluff and turn my head back around. My eyes immediately glimpsed her flat, hard stomach. I tried my best not to stare.
"Jesus, do all girls in California have a perfect body like you?"
"Just the ones who do 2 hours of yoga and jogging a day, and haven't had a double cheeseburger in like forever," she remarked as she took off her sweat pants. Layla was now just standing there, wearing nothing but a black sports bra and a matching thong. Then her slender fingers went up to her hair which she let down to her shoulders. She gave it a quick tease and a toss.
"How about you?" she asked, raising both eyebrows and smiling like a fox.
"What?"
"You. Your turn. Let's see."
"Uh, no..."
"C'mon, you just saw me almost naked. And we're going to be roommates, so we'll have to see each other sooner or later."
"So why can't it be later?" I asked, stalling, asking myself if this was really going to happen.
"Dude, don't worry about it. I won't judge you. Think of it as an ice breaker, or like the first kinda crazy thing you did once you got to college. We've all been there."
"...fine," I relented as I gave into her nudging. I stood up and took off the plain gray sweatshirt I was wearing. Then I hesitated as my hands moved to take off my t-shirt. I figured it wouldn't be too bad, kind of like wearing a bikini top at the beach.
"Can I at least keep my jeans on?" I asked.
"Uh uh," said Layla. "Just do it already. It's just you and me in here anyway."
"Ugh." I undid my belt and unzipped my jeans, pulling them down quickly before kicking them off, just to get it over with.
"Okay. Happy now?"
"Totally. See, that wasn't so bad. You have kind of a cute body."
"Pssh. Yeah right. I'm not miss sixpack like you."
"Y'know, if you want, I could show you a few things. Like, we could work out together. I think you could definitely have a stomach, maybe some legs."
"Hey, what happened to not judging? And what's wrong with my legs?!"
"Nothing!" she laughed genuinely. "Don't be such a girl about it!" We were both laughing, and smiling, and sitting there, in our underwear. I had known Layla for less than half an hour and she had me almost naked, laughing, comfortable, safe, even. And I think it was in that exact moment I fell in love with her. I just hadn't realized it...yet.
It was getting later in the evening, and we snagged a pizza (cheating on mr. diet) for dinner and took it up to our room. I decided I should probably find out more about my new roommate who had just seen me in my plane-jane bra and boy shorts.
"So what does your name mean?" I asked.
"What, just cause I'm Arabic means my name's gotta mean something? What kind of racist crap is that?"
"What? No! I just thought that... I would never-"
"Dude, you are way too easy," she laughed, with that infectious laugh of hers that just lit up our room. "I'm totally messing with you. 'Layla' means 'princess.' 'Naim' means 'comfort' though it's technically a guy's name since my dad wanted a boy, and 'Zamurrad' means 'emerald,' which dates back a long way since it's sorta rare to have green eyes and it runs in the family."
"Oh. Well, excuse me and my half Italian, Midwestern sensibilities, Princess Layla," I said charmingly.
