Dear Boy I Met at Shooters

Dear Boy I Met at Shooters,

I wasn’t drunk, just a little light-headed. Sober from waiting in line to get inside in the first place. It didn’t take long to get used to the bodies pressed against hot bodies, the steam hanging in the air, and I began to like it after a few songs.

I was sweat and smeared makeup. You were warmth and something different. I thought I knew who I was but I was wrong, but I know who you are. See, Athena thrust bravery into my bones and Aphrodite gave me the desire. You approached me but I brought this on myself. I apologized to my mother as I felt your palms on my waist. There was so much skin.

When we first started dancing (if you could call it that), I remember thinking how this could be any other O-week conversation. We exchanged names, hometowns, majors and dorms like they were prerequisites to a friendship. Or a relationship. You asked if I wanted to go somewhere less crowded and I said yes. Do you remember how you held my hand, my back still against your torso as we made our way between bar and wall?

All of a sudden our bodies are touching, my head over your shoulder, and when I pull back we make eye contact. And then we make out.

And I see our spit fuse with cherry vodka, and I see what 1AM Shooters doessee what it is like for it to be too dark to tell if your eyes are openand I see the ease with which your mouth swallows me whole.

I don’t know how long we’re there. It can’t be more than ten minutes before I make up some excuse about how I should get back to my friends. As we walk back, you ask if I want to “do this again sometime.” I don’t want to do this again.

In an effort to avoid coming off rude, I offer you my phone for you to enter your number. I don’t plan on calling. I don’t plan on texting. I still don’t.

Excuse the cliché, but it’s not you, it’s me. I’m still just a child. College arrived in another part of the country where there was no family, where there were no friends, where nothing was familiar and I discovered a new kind of longing. I do not want your pity. This is just what happens when you find yourself among strangers you want to know and don’t want to know. Do you understand how easy it is to decide to try something new? To close your eyes and hold hands with the first person you see? Drinking was easy. Dancing was easy. Kissing you was easy. There was something good about no expectations, about not having to think before doing. That was the best part. The best part was not you.


The girl you met at Shooters

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