“I guess we grew up,” he says sadly.
“Grew up,” I say. “Profound.”
He sits back next to me in the other chair. “I hate college.”
“Isn’t it a little too late to complain?” I ask.
He ignores me. “I hate it.”
“Well, the first couple of years are bad,” I say.
“How about the rest?” He looks over at me, seriously awaiting my answer.
“You get used to it,” I say, after a while.
We stare at the TV. More commercials that look like videos. More videos.
“I want to f**k Billy Idol,” he says absently.
“Yeah?” I yawn.
“I want to f**k you too,” he says in the same absent voice.
“Guess I’m in good company.” His comments make me want to take a swig from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I do. It tastes good. I hand him back the bottle.
“Stop flirting,” he says, laughing. “You’re a bad flirt.”
“No, I’m not,” I say, offended that he thinks I’m coming on to him.
He grabs my wrist playfully and says “You always were.”
“Richard, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, pulling my wrist away from his hold, looking at him quizzically, then turning back to the TV.
Another video changes into a commercial and then a loud clap of thunder quiets us.
“It’s really raining hard,” he says.
“Yes, it’s raining hard,” I say.
“Are you seeing anyone there?” he asks. “I mean, at school.”
“Some Sophomore from the South who rides a motorcycle. I can’t explain it,” I say and then realize that it’s a pretty accurate description of Sean and it makes him look a lot less glamorous than he once seemed. Because, what else is there to say about him? There’s a minute here where I cannot remember his name, can’t even picture features, a face, any sort of shape. “What about you?” I choke, dreading the answer.
“What about me?” he asks. What a finely honed sense of humor.
“Have you ‘met’ anyone?” I rephrase the question.
“‘Met’ anyone?” he asks coyly.
“Who are you f**king? Is that better? I mean, I don’t really want to know. I’m just making conversation.”
“Oh God,” he sighs. “Some guy from Brown. He studies Semiotics. I think it’s the study of laundry or something. Anyway, he’s on the crew team. I see him weekends, you know.”
“Who else?” I ask. “How about at school?”
“Oh this guy from California, from Encino, named Jaime. Transfer from U.C.L.A. Blond, Jewish. He’s on the crew team also.”
“That is such a lie,” I have to blurt out.
“What?” He gets embarrassed, looks shocked. “What do you mean?”
“You always say you’re seeing someone on the ‘crew’ team. And you never are. What is a ‘crew’ team?” I ask and I notice that we have been whispering the entire conversation. “There’s not a crew team at Sarah Lawrence, you nitwit. You think you’re going to get away with lying to me?”
“Oh shut up, you’re completely crazy,” he says, disgusted with me, waving me away.
We watch some more TV and listen to the music coming from the cassette player at the same time and finish off the J.D. After we’ve smoked all the cigarettes in the room, he finally asks, “How is yours going?”
I say, “It’s not.”
He leans over and looks out the window. Richard has a really nice body.
I pick up the bottle and cough as I swallow the last drops.
Richard says, “You know it’s bad when you can see the rain at night.”
We’re quiet for a minute and he looks at me and I start to laugh at him.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, smiling.
“‘You know it’s bad when you can see the rain at night?’ What is that? A f**king Bonnie Tyler song?”
The liquor has made me feel good and he leans up close, laughing also, and I can smell the warm scotch on his breath and he kisses me too hard at first and I push him back a little and I can feel the line where stubble and lip meet and I think I hear a door open and close somewhere and I don’t care whether it’s Mrs. Jared or my mother, drunk, in lieu of divorce, asleep by Seconal, in a nightgown from Marshall Fields, and though I don’t want to, we undress each other and I go to bed with Richard. Afterwards, early in the morning, pre-dawn, without saying goodbye to anyone, I pack quietly and walk to the bus station in the rain and take the first bus back to Camden.