MS 1 - F

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It was the night before the Formal. I sat next to my friend B, doodling hearts on my arm and sipping a can-concealed mixture of tequila and ginger ale. We were both listening to our classmate, F, perform a cover of a pop song for the annual med school concert. It was very difficult not to laugh. I had just spent the day telling B, with a strange mixture of emotion in my gut, that I wasn’t sure what to do about F. F and I had, in the space of a few months, developed a very singular relationship. Long story short, it had most recently resulted in me spending the night and having morning breakfast at F’s place, all before even having broken up with my boyfriend. I had been rather giddy afterward, confused by the adrenaline rush of almost-cheating and gleeful at having a man make eggs and coffee for me for the first time. After a much-needed but still-tearful breakup, I managed to pull myself together enough to honor my last pathology exam and steal secret glances and reassuring touches from F. Things were tough, but they were looking up. I managed to sit through the song (which B insisted was secretly dedicated to me), downed my can, and quickly ducked out to go home and make myself presentable for the Formal. I didn’t feel like facing F until I was both very lovely and very intoxicated. It was really the only way to go about things at that point.

The Formal was to be the first of numerous parties that had me following F around like a schoolgirl. This sudden need to be near him was unfamiliar and unnerving. I couldn’t make sense of my feelings, and was too drunk to care. I remember thinking that he looked comical and completely unattractive, and yet I couldn’t bear to let him out of my sight for too long. Thus, I unfortunately barely remember anything about the Formal, except being with F and looking for F and distracting myself with other friends for a few moments in between. My sharpest memory is of sitting down with a very drunk F, him grabbing my thigh to slur out, “I don’t care what people think anymore. I want to be with you. It doesn’t matter,” and me hurriedly pushing his hand away with distaste.

We all slowly trickled out and stood in the freezing cold, booze-addled brains struggling to process what to do next. At last, most of us managed to squeeze ourselves into taxicabs. We all got back to my house somehow and crowded into the kitchen. F hadn't left with my group. I called him. "I'm on my way," he said, sounding very calm, and his group soon tumbled in to join us. There were too many people in the kitchen. F’s neat, white dress shirt was stained by a wayward mug of spiked cider, and I innocently told him I had an extra shirt for him in my room upstairs. I had absolutely no machinations in mind, but as soon as the two of us were alone and maneuvering about in my extremely tiny room, I realized I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried. Off went the stained shirt. "You look silly wearing a t-shirt with dress pants," I declared. Those came off as well. I gave him a pair of my men's pajama pants to put on, but the finished effect was ridiculous. "There's no way I'm going down like this," he said, as I couldn't contain my laughter, and he removed the pants. When I asked how exactly he planned to return downstairs without his pants, he responded by lying down in my unmade bed. Confused again by the excitement of having him in my room - no, actually, in my bed - while everyone was still downstairs, I didn’t even pause to think before climbing in with him.