“Do you want to come up to my room?” she said through the drug. Which drug, though, I could not be sure. It was hard to assemble all the syllables she was saying. She had invited me up to her room just seconds after she had stopped me to ask for a cigarette. I gave her one and she wanted me to share it with her. I complied, since I had nothing better to do.
I asked her what her name was. She replied with what I gathered as, “Alley.” There were some other words in there, but yet again, I could not quite make them out. We stood there outside some college dorm, her leaning against the column and I leaning on the railing. I was leaning because I was tired from the walk home. She was leaning because of the drug.
I kept looking away into traffic, at people walking by, or up into the windows of the dorms, anything to keep from staring fixedly at this girl. She was very pretty – her hair was dark brown but not too long and not in her eyes, and her eyes were blue, with a smallish nose and full lipsticked lips. If she were able to stand up straight, she would be intimidating. The drug did not allow this, however, so she had a helpless and slightly uncontrollable sense to her.
Rather than being intimidated by her looks, I remained mostly withdrawn. I do not deal emotionally with people on drugs. Not to say they particularly bother me, I just try to stay away from getting into any deep conversation with them. Past conversation has shown me that the interest in the topic will be very one-sided. One person will have an intense interest, usually the drug, and the other will remain neutral.
We shared some more small talk, with me struggling to keep up through the oddly assembled syllables. I had already declined her offer to go upstairs. She mentioned something about, “Hating this world.” I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me. It was a look I had not received in a long time. It was a very warm, personal, and deep look. Straight into my eyes. For a second, I felt something for this girl. I wanted to feel something for this girl. I could not feel something for this girl. It was the drug. Any boy who would have given her a cigarette would have received this look.
I then took my leave and wished her a most pleasant evening.
Continuing my walk back home, I reflected on the occurrence. Maybe it was not the drug. Maybe it was the apology. Maybe this girl just needed someone to tell her he was sorry.