It’s a crisp late afternoon and I just put on a pot of tea. I’m watching the first snowfall of the season as the day stretches into dark evening. I’m in a reminiscing mood.
Last week, I posted something on Facebook that resulted in a larger response than I anticipated. It wasn’t anything profound, I just referenced some of John’s and my backstory. I confessed how hard John worked to convince me to date him. I truly thought most people knew that; apparently not. Apparently we give off a love-at-first-sight vibe. And that makes me laugh. So, since it fascinated so many folks — and because right now, the mood seems right — I thought I’d give the whole story with all (eh…most of) the juicy details.
As two writers, John and I should have met in an English class or a writing workshop. That would have been poetic. Instead, we met in an eternal, soul-sucking music appreciation class. Not the interesting kind. The kind where the auditorium-filled class has to listen to Latin operas for 3 hours and afterwards, write down how it made them feel. (I don’t want to guess what some of the jocks wrote down…)
Fast forward a bit, skipping how he actually introduced himself (an interesting story in its own right, but for another day.) It was only a once-a-week, evening class. By the end of the semester, I had spoken to John only a handful of times. But I’m not a moron and John isn’t subtle. So when John asked me which events I was attending to fulfill the “live concert” portion of our credit, I knew what he wanted.
We had to attend a total of three specifically-recommended concerts during the semester. And of course, none of those concerts were the interesting kind either. What can I say? My “well-rounded” liberal arts education is well-deserved… But John earned his even more. Because, as it turns out, he attended FOUR concerts. By the time he asked me which ones I was doing, he’d already fulfilled his. So, in an attempt to choreograph an “accidental encounter,” he had to attend one more.
I had been avoiding John. I didn’t hate him; he seemed nice. But I just wasn’t interested. And his “hey, which ones are you attending?” seemed waaaaay too high school. If I could have switched and attended different concerts than what I told him, I would have. Unfortunately, the semester was nearly over. My procrastination had consequences.
I got to the concert before he did. It was in Weld Hall on our college campus. Weld is actually the English building and both John and I were much more at home there than any other spot in Fargo-Moorhead, let alone MSUM. I went in without waiting for him. I have rules and expectations for dates. Namely: if I’m not sure if it’s a date, then it’s not a date. I owed nothing to the semi-awkward but eager kid I talked to maybe three times and walked with from class to dorms once.
I knew it was cruel. Especially when I saw him standing at the back of the room, looking around, craning his neck to see all the way to the front row. I could have stood and waved him over. Instead, I watched him give up as the lights dimmed and make his way to the opposite side of the room, where friends of his sat.
The concert was loud. It was the professor’s trombone recital. Actually, it could have been a different instrument. I don’t remember. I’m not big into the brass family. I prefer instruments to be made with strings. Plus, I was thinking more about John than timbre, tone, or tempo! (I’m sure whatever kind of reaction paper I wrote for that concert was pretty generic!)
After the concert, I fled. Apparently, so he’s told me, John stationed himself at the back doors right away to catch me leave, but he missed my exit. Of course, I did intentionally mix with a crowd exiting the far side of the room, opposite where he had been sitting. But I wasn’t quite good enough. Outside the auditorium, he somehow caught sight of me heading down the big staircase.
And then I, in turn, caught sight of him follow me. I knew he’d catch me if I continued my bee-line out of the building. So I seamlessly altered my plans.
Growing up, the bathroom was often my hide-out. This was for dual reasons. The obvious: everyone assumes you’re “taking care of business” and leaves you alone. Also, it was the only room in our house that had locks on the doors. Every smart kid knows that privacy is not found in the bedroom; it’s found in the bathroom.
So I went straight for Weld basement and into the ladies room. I wasn’t there too long and I don’t remember all I did. I’m sure I did “take care of business” while there. Probably ran a comb through my hair — but I certainly wasn’t primping for him. Then I just kinda sat around, wondering how long I should wait.
When I exited, John was in an empty classroom directly in my line of sight, talking with another student. He waved. My wave back was like a white flag. There was no running now. I’d been bested.
We didn’t hang out. He just walked me back to my dorm. I wasn’t surprised when he asked for my phone number. I’m sure he was determined never to be caught in that scenario again. I gave it to him.
I know it’s crazy, considering all I’d gone through to avoid him. Plus, I was mad at him — following me to the bathroom seemed inappropriate, not to mention creepy. I didn’t want to give him my number. But I had always known I would when he finally asked. The seriousness of that is what I had been hiding from in the bathroom.
