“But, you have a beard!” I said.
He smiled.
“I do have one of those. I just thought I’d try it. It seemed collegey.”
I could see him more clearly in the light of the living room, and I could tell within seconds that he would look ten times better without facial hair. It looked like there was a strong chin under there.
“Do you go to the university?”
He shook his head.
“I’m from Syracuse. But I go to school in Boston,” he said. “I came here to visit a friend from high school. ButI don’t think we’re friends anymore. It’s too bad. We used to be close. It’s hard to find that, you know? Do you want more water?”
But I was not listening. Not really. I was watching his face. His eyes were a little squinty beneath a pair of oversize glasses. But they were a lovely gray with blue around the pupils. His nose wasn’t as prominent as I usually liked, but it wasn’tun-prominent. And his tangle of blond hair was just messy enough. Was he handsome? Probably he was. It always took me too long to decide.
“Ha,” I said finally.
“What?”
“You’re a Media Studies major from Boston.”
“I don’t know what Media Studies is.”
“Oh.”
“I do things with computers,” he said.
“Nerdy things?”
“Yeah. Probably. Most things I do are nerdy.”
I nodded.
“It’s far away,” I heard myself saying.
“What’s that?”
“Boston. It’s far.”
“I guess that’s true.”
My head was nodding. Drooping actually. I was driftingoff. Now that I was empty, my body was ready to be done with this night.
“Dammit,” I said. “I’d like to keep talking to you, Jonah. There is something about your voice that is really goddamned peaceful, but I guess I’m going to sleep now. You know how it is.”
He was quiet a moment then motioned toward my couch.
“Actually, that’s where I’m supposed to sleep,” he said.
And again, I spoke without thinking.
“We can share it if you want,” I said. “But I’m not getting up. That’s my best offer.”
I closed my eyes and beneath my lids there were pictures, bursts of light zooming here and there. It took Jonah maybe a minute or so to decide, but eventually he came over and sat down beside me. He smelled like laundry detergent and a long-ago spritz of cologne. He lay down. I leaned my head on his chest and he held absolutely still. I felt warm all over my body.
In the movie version of this scene, we make out feverishly. Then we wake in each other’s arms like Italian teenagers from that old Zeffirelli movie we watched in AP English. But this wasn’t Shakespeare. We were not in Verona. We were in Iowa at a fake farmhouse full of passed-out undergraduates and imitation Quakers.
So, instead, I woke up the next afternoon with a catastrophic hangover, a fresh dose of hell to pay at school, and an e-mail address written on a gas station receipt that read:
