It was 1976, but I don’t remember much of what happened that year. All I recall is my skin growing especially pale and a boy I was particularly fond of…
“What class are you going to now?” asked Emily.
“That painting class I was telling you about, with professor Holstein,” I replied in a dazed tone. I simply had not been feeling like myself lately. It could have been the insomnia, or perhaps the faint connection I felt towards everyone.
“Woah, Holstein, he’s good, and difficult to get. How’d you pull that off?”
“I don’t know, just signed up for classes early.”
“I’ll meet you tonight, at Zeno’s. You’re coming, right?”
Shoot, I totally forgot about Zeno’s, and here I was, planning on making it a movie night, just me and a pint of classic vanilla ice cream.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss shooting darts and stale bar nuts with my best friends,” I replied in a deceivingly sincere tone. She began galloping away as she contently sung, “You better not.” I’m surprise she didn’t catch the sarcasm; she always catches my sarcasm. I wasn’t planning on missing out on tonight, but I honestly did not feel like going.
I arrived to class a bit early. I took a seat near the front, as I do in all my classes. The small room quickly filled with a variety of people. Finally, professor Holstein marched in. I could tell he was an impatient man, with his fiery skin and the attitude to match. Nonetheless, he was pleasantly humorous and extroverted. As he cracked one of his many jokes, I laughed and looked around the room. No one stood out, except for one lad. He had dark brown hair, and the sweetest eyes. His shoulders were bold, yet delicate, and his attentiveness was quite captivating. For the rest of the class, I attempted not to stare, and I was successful, though it was difficult.
That night I went to Zeno’s, shot some darts, ate stale bar nuts, and, oh yeah, saw the lad from my art class.
“So that’s your mystery chap?”
“Yup.”
“What are you waiting for? Go talk to him.”
“Are you insane?! I don’t know him”
“That’s why you walk over there, and get to know him. You know you want to,” giddily affirmed Emily, with the smuggest look on her face. I was trying to play it cool, only looking over at him ever few minutes, but Emily and Nathan were making it impossible by repeatedly looking over in his direction.
“Quit looking. He’s going to know we’re talking about him.”
“Oh relax, he already saw you.”
“I’m serio… What? Really? When? Oh no! He’s going to think I’m a total creep and…”
“Relax. It was about fifteen minutes ago, when you went to the washroom. He watched you walk there, then, come back.” I was certain Emily was messing with me. There was no way he would even notice me.
“It’s true,” said Nathan. Once he affirmed it, I began to think Emily’s claim was somewhat credible, and I blushed.
The night went on and I was still there, shooting darts, eating stale bar nuts, and now, drinking a cool mineral water with lemon. I looked around at the dim container of drunken college students and girls with their much older college boyfriends, and noticed my new attraction was working his way through the sea of bodily blurs. I could tell he was leaving, because he grabbed his coat and shook hands goodbye. I didn’t want him to leave, but I didn’t want to attempt anything to make him stay.
He stopped a few meters from the doorway to chat with a friend he ran into, but the entire time, he stared and smiled at me. I, of course was chatting up my own friends, but could not help but stare and smile back. It was as if our gazes locked and nothing could avert our eyes, until finally, his conversation died, and so did our optical romance…

Some said she had chosen this way of life, that it was a mark of a deceitful and hardened heart worn away by the toils of time, and that she simply no longer cared to associate with them. Some said she was a lost soul to be pitied, and they prayed for her in their churches and their Bible studies and brought her a casserole every now and then, feeling quite good about themselves as they did so. Not once did her front door open; all of their donations of charity were left sitting outside on the porch, growing cold and obtaining an unsavory jelly-like form until the aluminum lids were pried off by savvy scavenging creatures in the blistery winter night. No one had spoken to her for ages, yet her presence loomed over them still, a ghost relentlessly prying its way into their obtuse brains, reminding them of something they had forgotten, like a beloved object once accidentally left behind.

She certainly had been something, back then. She had delighted and entertained, swirling with vibrancy and color as she danced through the monotonous motions of living, making the simple fact of existence appear a cause for joyous celebration. Her beauty was of the natural variety; she never wore makeup nor fancy clothes, but still she shone in the center of a crowd. Her eyes were alight with an irresistibly alluring fire and her long, dark hair hung in waves down her slender back. But her most admirable feature was her smile: strong, passionate, and infectious, it was indeed unique.

The woman did not possess any remarkable skills or talents; she preferred to dabble in various recreations for a short period of time, persisting only until she grew bored and restless and felt the urge to move on to something different. Over the years she had tried becoming a painter, a writer, a pastry chef, a woodworker, a singer, and, during one of her more mysterious stages of life, an exotic dancer. She performed adequately in every task she attempted, but none of them inspired her enough to continue longer than a year or so. She complained openly about her ennui, but only in a laughing, dismissive manner, with a wave of the hand and a shake of her head. “I’ll find it eventually,” she would say, with that broad smile of hers. “I’ll find what I’m meant to do.”

She had gotten married to a successful and handsome entrepreneur from Iowa. She had received declarations of affection from countless potential suitors, but all of their compliments had seemed to float stagnant in the air between them, never reaching the woman’s ears. On the rare occasions that she would speak with others about her love life, she expressed resignation; she insisted she had grown comfortable with the notion that no one was ever to be interested in her (despite all evidence to the contrary). Her would-be suitors took her as arrogant, a rather cruel tease to the hearts of men, but her indifference did little to calm the warmth of desire induced by the very mention of her name.

The Man from Iowa was chosen simply because he had been the most persistent of her admirers, and while she was sure she didn’t love him, she agreed to marry him. Like her round-table of jobs, the role of Wife was simply another hat she felt she obligated to try on. The night he left her was the first night that she did not cry herself to sleep. Instead, she lay in her opulent king-sized bed and studied the patterns in the ceiling, blinking her eyes and wondering why they were so dry.