Not just a post-Valentine’s misadventure

At first I thought some poor sucker had simply forgotten Valentine’s Day, but even for a grovelling apology, this would have been going a bit far.

The Wednesday after Valentine’s Day, a friend and I were leaving our study nook in West Hall for a late-night coffee refresher when we came upon a lavish spread of candles and rose petals fanned out on the ground beneath the building’s outdoor archway.

Our timing was unwittingly perfect – the young man responsible for the display was just leading his girlfriend toward it with her eyes covered. Judging the moment to be private, I quickly moved to do the same, and my friend and I were already turned back to our original trek toward Espresso Royale when the young woman gave an unmistakable squeal. We pivoted, and the scene’s perfect tableau was as picturesque as the young man – now on bended knee – had surely hoped. There were even white Christmas lights strung along the arch’s curve.

Having at the moment little thought for thorough journalism, I didn’t approach the happy pair for their names, but I’m pretty sure she said yes.


The bathroom dominatrix

In the fourth floor bathroom of Alice Lloyd Residence Hall I gossip through a mouth full of toothpaste. I see a lot of people I know, mostly because I live down the hall.

But there is one girl I know only for her bathroom habits.

I see her at the sinks several nights each week, and I’m awed every time.

Never before have I seen anyone treat her environment with such authority. It begins when the door rattles in its frame with three punches to the keypad, swings open and slams into the wall.

The bathroom dominatrix storms in with fast, long strides and disappears directly into a stall. Within a minute she’s out and washing her hands with meticulous attention.

Then she moves to her face. She twists her long hair into an immaculate bun with one smooth sweep. Wisps are restrained with a thin, black headband on her forehead. Soon a robust lather masks her faces. It doesn’t touch a strand of hair.

Then her toothbrush meets a shapely glob of Aquafresh – from a tube without crust. The brush head is brought under a blast of water and tapped twice.

She attacks plaque with the same fervor a televangelist might take on non-believers. Her lips are without foam.

Before I’ve even gotten to the back of my bicuspids, she spits.

She’s gone just as quickly as she came.


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