My eyes burned, and my stomach ached. My head said I’d done the right thing, but my heart insisted I’d done myself severe bodily harm. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw cold water over my face, then curled into a fetal position on my bed, the riptide of memory pulling me under. Jim. Across the college commons, walking toward me, confident, his gaze fixed on me, like I was the only woman in the world. A leaner Robert Redford, all blond hair, pale blue eyes, dimples. Our first date, a dance club to hear my favorite band, dancing bebop, twirling, dipping, flinging in the air. Laughter. So much laughter. Joy. Walking, hands in the other’s back pockets, tickling, the slow sweet kisses. Our first time, making love in the theater storage room, on a pile of old costumes. The feel of his mouth on my neck, on my breasts, his tongue twirling my nipples, his fingers brushing my slit, our bodies so slick and eager, my moans, his groans. Then for months afterward, one touch, one look and we blazed—in hallways, elevators, the library, the stairwell, against a wall, in the woods, in the car.
