Utopia

There was something incongruously romantic in this, she thought as she looked out at the lazy arcs and steadfast pillars of the Verrazano Bridge. Something about looking out over this red brick, old tree corner of Staten Island, beyond the dull gray of the choppy harbor, and at the mad dash of Brooklyn, away from the horns and the sirens and the human noise pollution – here, on the grassy hill behind the student union, her fingers digging into the earth as muted trumpet played over and over again in her head.

Incongruous seemed to be the word of the day, at least in the little world that enveloped her and blinded her to the milling students a few dozen meters away, and the din of crashing cutlery and shouted orders. Incongruous, she thought – adjective. Lacking harmony; incompatible; not in keeping with what is correct, proper, or logical.

The solidity of the definition seemed to harden the earth below her; she dug her fingers into the grass as her eyes followed the slow trudge of a laden barge far below.

She had made the first move. Her roommate, keener eyed than the unsuspecting freshman, anticipated this change in attitude and discreetly excused herself, citing the need to study away from the pounding bass next door. Then, as she stood before him – he on her bed, legs dangling, she standing cautiously between them with her hands on his shoulders as his were on her hips – she had leaned in and pressed virgin lips briefly against his. Skin against skin; that was all. Dry, chaste, and delirious.

He knew she’d never kissed before; he looked a little surprised that she had done so just now. Surprised, but – she reflected – not unhappy. Lips met again, deepened – and it was stranger than she’d expected, and wetter too. He let her catch her breath, asked if it was okay, and when she nodded dazedly, returned to where he’d left off. Not so strange now.

A good while later, after he’d straightened his wrinkled clothes and laughingly combed a few knots out of her hair, he had kissed her goodbye and left her to an empty, trembling room. Only ten minutes later had her legs regained enough strength for her to go look for her roommate – partner in crime – and call her back.

You should be careful about doing this at night, he’d said in a mock lecturing tone as he laid one hand against the soft skin of her neck. You won’t be able to sleep for a good while afterward.

Yes, Professor, she’d said with a smile.

And he’d been right. She hadn’t slept; she’d lain awake in the narrow bed where hours before he had so carefully stayed within her boundaries, and thought about the sounds he’d made when she, acting on intuition, had taken his lower lip gently between her teeth. Her hands strayed over her curves without conscious direction, tracing the spot where his fingers had splayed, hot and strong, across her stomach.

The next day she’d awoken with a bare minimum of sleep behind her, and feeling better than she ever had before.

When noon came and she hadn’t seen him, she began to doubt. Had it all been a dream? Certainly no one had ever looked at her that way before, exclaimed with that sudden, unexpected hoarseness at her touch; had Morpheus just been leaving fingerprints on her mind?

Then a familiar face amidst the stragglers, as she was headed back to her dorm; he smiled when he saw her, stopped her and hugged her, asked her how her day was. She couldn’t remember any of the answers she’d given him the night before, and she couldn’t remember this reply either when they parted moments later. The callback had gone well, he’d said; that much she recalled. Tell me about it later? she called to him.

She shook the thoughts from her head and returned to the substantial earth of the hill behind student union, fingers buried in newly-mowed, verdant grass. The wind whipped red amber curls into her face, like fire licking across the gray granite of the sky, and she scowled, trying not to remember how her hair had escaped its elastic and fallen just so into his face as they stared at one another, trying to remember how to breathe. Or had it just been her?

Be careful about those theater boys, her mother had said. They may mean well, but… it’s in their nature.

She’d never been certain what her mother had meant; now she was afraid she did. This word – this feeling – did not have a definition in her mind. It did have a palpable weight that leadened her blood and dragged water from behind closed eyes.

He hadn’t told her about it later. She hadn’t seen him again that second day.

He was in the atrium, her roommate later said, surrounded by girls; just more theater majors, I think. You didn’t notice, but when you walked by, he stopped talking to watch you pass. Nothing too obvious, but it was there.

Sleep had come more easily that night, and she’d smiled into pillows that the night before had still smelled of his cologne.

The third day he had no classes; she had one early. When she returned to the dorm, she made her bed and organized the mess of papers on her desk; it was too early to call, she thought. He might be a night owl. So when she finished she had decided to explore the campus.

The unseasonably cool wind erased the memory of his breath, hot and moist with life and their shared passion against her throat. She shivered and hugged her arms as she moved between people, over brick pathways, jumping out of the way of maintenance trucks, waving distractedly to people she knew, trying to concentrate on her English assignment. The gray sky and the heavy chill made her want to return to her dorm and flip the calendar pages to November; it couldn’t be August. Where had the warmth gone?

She’d thought the same thing two nights before, after he’d gone and left her shivering and trembling, too dazed even to smile.

Now she chewed her lower lip and chafed her hands, blowing on the fingers occasionally. He’d been the one shivering when she kissed his fingertips –

Maybe it was too early to get worried. The third day; that was all. Her roommate didn’t seem concerned about it; no one else seemed to sense her deep unease. Be careful about those theater boys, her mother had said. It’s in their nature.

He hadn’t returned her call – one call, only one, with a brief message that she thought was just affectionate enough without raising any red flags. He’d had bad relationships in the past, he had confided that night; she didn’t want to be next on the list.

If only she could remember how she had answered his murmured queries.

But one call – that’s not so bad, is it? It was only 11:30. He could still be asleep. He might be a night owl. The door had been unlocked when she passed it, but she hadn’t dared push it open or even knock, afraid of catching him unprepared, afraid of his roommates in general (boys are Greek to me, she remembered saying once, and you know what they say about Greeks bearing gifts), afraid of finding him with his lip between someone else’s teeth –

She felt so cheap, suddenly. Cheap and cold. Her first kiss, her first boy, her first warmth – had it been as real for him? Had he found himself distracted in class by the memory of their mouths meeting and opening? Had he felt cold without her legs twining with his, her hands on his chest and shoulders and behind his head?

Had she just been an outlet? A convenience? Oh, god –

It hadn’t meant anything, had it?

No. Don’t think that way; and even if it didn’t, you’re stronger than that. You’re stronger than stumbling blocks and dropped anvils and that devilishly soft accent. If it meant nothing, it meant nothing to him. He gave you a lesson – two for the price of one, in fact. A good deal.

Oh, god –

If it meant nothing, you will smile when you see him and say hello and ask how his day was. You will ask when his performance is and answer his questions about classes and your family’s health and how the latest chapter is coming along.

Incongruous: adjective. Lacking in harmony; incompatible; not in keeping with what is correct, proper, or logical.

So cheap.

Just smile and wave; you’re not the first, you won’t be the last. You’re not that special.

Boys are Greek to me.

Slowly, the barge drifted beneath the Verrazano Bridge and out of sight, leaving only two marks behind, the gap between them widening slowly. She tucked her messed hair behind her ears, ignoring how the wind had skewed the part, and remembered that the weatherman had said tomorrow should be warmer.