The drive to her place led us toward the University. She lived in a little one room, one closet, one kitchen, one bathroom place on the corner of University and Hazel near Food for Thought and across the alley from the local health food and book store that doubled as a pseudo-intellectual hangout. University towns must be full of places like that one, that and her apartment, big old brick buildings that were probably once old dormitories (actually, the apartment had been a hospital) and had since been replaced with newer, more modern facilities but remodeled, were popular, because of their culture and their heritage, as student dwellings. What that really meant was something along the same lines of your fixer-upper ad in the Sunday Times. Fifty year old wiring that buzzed when you snapped the light, heat that was on at all the wrong times of the year, insulation that had simply given up to repeated coats of paint and walls you couldn’t knock a hole in if you had a fifty pound sledge, much less a thumb tack and a three penny hammer. She lived on the second floor, room 323. Go figure! Didn’t make much sense to me either, but there it was just the same.

“You can come in if you like, I won’t be but a minute.”

“Thanks.” The skeleton key clicked brass tumblers in one of Standard’s well-aged locks and the dark oak door tagged with a polished cheeky 323 ornament swung in. The light shadow widened slowly and revealed a futon, television, plant, and a mountain bike hanging on the wall; all within arm’s reach of each other over the pit of light cast in by the illuminated hallway. She—as I still didn’t know her name—flicked the light and a small room materialized. “Make yourself at home, there are some snacks in the fridge.” She pointed to the darkened doorway on my right then disappeared around the corner to another room.

“I thought we were heading out to eat. Wouldn’t want me to spoil my appetite now would you?” I wandered toward the futon and took my ease, ready to wait for quite some time. The bathroom door she’d opened had one of those full-length mirrors and had been left more than half way open. Sandi darted from another darkened passage to the left carrying a change of clothes and a hairbrush and into the bathroom. Her figure was clear in the mirror and I was expecting her to close the door any second. She didn’t.

My eyes darted away with that infamous little ten-year-old-just-caught-your-sister’s-best-friend-sunbathing-naked-on-the-back-porch look. In another minute she was out, shoes on, perfume sprayed and a refresh of the makeup complete. “Ready?”

“Sure, ready. Don’t you ever close the door?” Somehow, I knew that she had been watching me just as I had been watching her, but thought I should be the one to say something rather than she.

“Are you shy? How sweet.” She gave me a peck on the lips and danced her way to the door. All was dark again save the hallway light and I was floating on the wall of her apartment, a semi-permanent fixture in the shadow.

By the time we reached the car some of the past moment’s embarrassment had faded. It was surely a beautiful night and I was going to let it ride for as long as it would have me. I decided it was nothing more than the norm by which she was surrounded and not to take it out of that context if I could manage. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”

“What do you want it to be?”