My roommate Michelle and I had been picked up on the Metro within days of each other. Her relationship bloomed. Mine wilted.
This guy and I had been eyeing each other the entire ride. We got off at the same stop at Woodley Park and awkwardly walked next to each other.
Now, this next memory is akin to what Seinfeld & Co. got jail time for in the series finale. It’s horrible, but in front of us, a homeless guy fell down.
Obviously today I would help him, but as selfish kids, this hot guy and I laughed our a$ses off.
Tension considered broken. Coincidentally, he lived in the same building in a set of suites being used by another college. Maybe his name was Brad. Certainly don’t know his last name, but remember his Dad was an exec at Liz Claiborne.
Maybe-Brad and I ended up at the same bar that night when one of his classmates turned twenty-one. We had to endure the whole ‘this guy is going to do twenty-one shots thing, let’s make sure he makes it out alive before we inevitably made it back up to my suite.’
We didn’t even make it past the threshold before clothes were coming off. With five other roommates, this was quite a gamble on my part.
Michelle was the one who broke it up by trying to get in the front door. Fortunately, our bodies were blocking it, and we could tell her to hold off twenty seconds before we scampered off to one of the bathrooms.
Maybe we had the class not to hook up in the filthy bathroom or fatigue and liquor had tired us out. Regardless, it was over. Bye Maybe-Brad.