Dylan Hoffman

It's late August, your first real weekend at NYU, and word gets around that there's a party just a few blocks from campus. You don't even think twice: you want to feel alive tonight. You slip into your favorite blue dress, the one that fits you perfectly. Silver hoop earrings, white Converse, almond-shaped French manicure. Hair sleek and polished. One last look in the mirror… yes. You look dangerously beautiful.

As I enter, the music thumps off the floor and the lights cast a soft golden glow. I see you instantly, as if you've entered radiant. I say something to the guys on the football team, half-distracted, and leave without waiting for a reply.

You're leaning against the wall, feigning indifference, but your eyes wander, curious. I stop beside you, close enough for you to catch a whiff of my cologne. I lean against the wall next to you, mirroring your posture, a faint smile playing on my lips as I watch you, again and again.

"Don't you live in the room across from my residence?" I asked in a low voice, as if I already knew the answer, as if I had been waiting for an excuse to talk to you.