Butterflies and Wine

April 2010

The first time that Courtney* and I hung out together outside of a class-related activity was in her dorm room. I brought the wine. She wasn’t sure how to work the corkscrew, so I offered to do it, but my hands were shaking, and I felt my face turning red as I struggled to pull the cork from the bottle. We were hanging out under the guise of a new friendship, but my feelings for her extended beyond friends, and I had hoped that tonight would give me a clue as to whether she felt the same way. Courtney’s suite was across the quad from mine; so close, in fact, that I could see in to my suite’s common room from her window. From time to time earlier that semester, I would glance out my dorm room window and see her practicing yoga on the massive concrete steps leading up to another section of dorms. She was skilled at lotus, and I remember vividly that her back was always very, very straight during her poses. This fact of her posture did not escape me as I sat behind her in class (Sexuality Studies, no lie). I reveled at her ability to sit so straight and poised for a full hour and 15 minutes of class. I admired her for it, and the simple fact of her posture elevated her in my mind. She was an enigma to me, so I took each piece of observation, however small, to add to my knowledge of her. In class, she was mostly quiet but articulate when she did choose to speak. I felt tongue-tied and unknowledgeable in comparison. There was many a day when I zoned out from the lecture and instead sat staring at her short curly brown hair; I longed to run my fingers through it, just to see what it felt like…only if she wanted me to, of course. But I digress.

It was April and still cool enough for the window to be open. The breeze gave me some precious fresh air that helped to calm my nerves. Courtney and I sat next to each other, cross-legged on the couch, drinking the wine and exchanging stories. For two people who had studied together and sat in class together for nearly a full semester, we still had much to learn about each other. We talked about the scars we had on our hands and used it as an excuse to trace each other’s skin. I showed her the burn scar on my right thumb that I earned earlier that year while making some (less than stellar) brownies. She grazed the top of my thumb with hers. Time stopped. That eschewed cliché was completely and totally accurate. Did she know the effect that she had on me? I felt myself blushing continuously throughout the night. I convinced myself that it wasn’t obvious. Later in our relationship, Courtney would tell me that she had noticed and thought it was adorable.

Tracing each other’s skin on our hands was the closest we came to acknowledging our feelings for one another (or to making a move) that night. The waiting was agonizing but also exhilarating. Before I left that night, she gave me a tour of the rest of her suite. The highlight of the tour for me, unsurprisingly, was her bedroom. Courtney was working on her senior thesis at the time, and she had stacks of books on her nightstand and all along the windowsill. I loved seeing the inner workings of her life, where she did the bulk of her thinking. She was still an enigma to me, and seeing her room was like earning one more piece of the puzzle. I still remember the jolt I felt when I saw her bed. Her bed was slightly messy, the sheets carelessly pulled up and still somewhat rumpled. Staring at her bed hit me hard. I couldn’t help but imagine her in there, and then I would snuggle in beside her. Soon, I thought. Soon, it’ll happen.