It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not quite stormy, but in the low thirties with a brisk and terribly biting wind. Nothing seemed amiss. ‘Twas a Friday night after a long and arduous week of participating occasionally in class. You deserve this weekend, plus you and your friends are good people. Seriously, a little gossip here and there, an intermittent bout of shit-talk every semester, but you surely did not deserve the fate you were mere minutes away from receiving. 

Drunk enough to tell a random stranger that you love them, you enter the basement of Sig. It is crowded, hot and difficult to see. When the song “Temperature” by Sean Paul comes on, you know it’s about to be a good night. 

However, then you catch a glimpse from across the room. A haunted and dead feeling fills you with dread. It feels like you’re in a movie with everything rushing around you while all your movements happen in slow motion. You make eye-contact so powerful it rocks you to your core, and you come to realize that you’re drooling slightly. 

You haven’t seen them since they served you coffee this morning in Cleveland. Do you think they remember your order?? A nonfat latte with one pump of vanilla and cinnamon? They’re looking at you like they remember you … they are so close to your face; terror escalates. At this moment, you are equals, there are no verbal cues to rely on, how should one interact, what is permissible? So much is left unsaid, what will happen when you see them the next morning in Cleveland? Would it be appropriate to comment about your shared evening at Sig? Thoughts of social awkwardness overwhelm your mind, and with one swift motion, you crumble onto the floor, thrashing around like a dying fish, your dignity hanging above you in the air.