i.

It was never more than just platonic between them. It was never supposed to be. She was supposed to date others, and the friends of others, and the friends of friends of others. One of them was supposed to be her first kiss; the others were supposed to be experience, all of them were supposed to be an adventure.

But she never got to that point.

There was always something that stood in her way-something that ruined her chances indefinitely, something that left her feeling foolish, and alone, and ugly. She liked to blame it on others-on society, on the universe-but in her mind, deep in the back; in the dark spider filled recesses she liked to keep untouched and unexplored, she blamed herself.

There was something wrong with her-there had to be. There was no way she could go this long, go this late in her life without having at least one boyfriend.

She knew she wasn't ugly, far from it in fact. She has received her fair number of compliments and hit-on's. She knew that she was a cool person, albeit with peculiarities (but who doesn't have those?), but an all around great personality with sexual innuendo and witty sarcasm to boot.

She's been asked out plenty of times. She could have had a boyfriend by now-she guesses, but none of them were pretty enough, or funny enough, or nice enough-there was always a reason. She just didn't like any of them.

The ones that she did like never seemed to like her. They could have, she likes to think, if she wasn't so damn awkward around boys that she finds attractive. She'd always say the wrong thing or project the wrong image, or they'd always see her on her worst days and leave her best days for the hobos and supermarket employees.

Jason was the one she liked the most. Jason was the one she saw the most. Jason was the one she had the most conversations with-the one with the almost unfair angel-like face and eyes that crinkled when he smiled. For a minute she thought Jason was The one. But it was almost rehearsed how he avoided walking in the same direction as her and left what little conversation they had hanging in the air to stagnate and die in a slow, painful and near poetically awkward death.

It was also very cruel the way he liked to give her false hope with his staring and random, kind and uncommon compliments that needn't more than a second thought but garnered one anyway.

Then came Jessie, the new object of her affection that sat way in the back of Urban Studies that smelled nice and had a great sense of fashion even though it looks like he doesn't really try.

He was pretty and smart and refreshing. He took her mind off of Jason for days at a time, but the thought of Jason never really did stray far...

Jessie, she hardly knew-of course she can say the same about Jason, but she figured she had some chance with this guy this time. He was a friend of a friend and that always worked in movies.

But then she remembered; her life isn't a movie.

Her and Jessie never got farther than an awkward hello and chance eye contact when either of them entered their class. So much for mutual friendship.

She still thinks about him, a lot. She still thinks about Jason a lot as well.

She thinks she thinks too much.

Before Jessie came Henry, but he didn't become big until after Jessie. Henry was never really important to her but he was definitely a hot topic amongst her girlfriends. She couldn't blame them.

There was no denying that Henry was unendurably beautiful. There were too many words to describe just his looks alone-handsome, hot, pretty, flawless, gorgeous, really, really, really, ridiculously good looking. Not to mention he was a legend on campus. He's on the honor roll, he's the star quarterback, he runs the non-profit organization Red Cross club for the school, he tutors, he has a social life!

He's basically the child every parent wants. She sometimes can't believe that he's real. All the time, she can't believe that he's single.

She always thought he looked similar to Jason.

Maybe it's because they're cousins.

This, she thought, was very cruel.

Still, even with all this knowledge of the most illustrious boy at Temple U., she was never that fond of him.

She did think about him though, on her off days. She'd entertain herself with the thought of Henry and Jason both being in love with her and having to sit there and watch as the two cousins argued over who she should be with.

Lastly there was the other Jason. The taller, skinnier, rock-star hair Jason who she didn't give two thoughts to up until recently, thanks to her friend Camilla. He looks like a supermodel she'd say, he's too gorgeous.

And she knew that. Of course she did, how could she not. Anyone with eyes could see that he was beautiful, but he was just that to her. A person she saw in passing. A person who knew some of her friends but was pretty well known around campus in general.

Well known to everyone but her. And she was just fine with that, because she didn't care, because she cared about someone else-two someone else's.

Five glances and twenty minutes of Facebook stalking later and she was officially thinking about him. Seven cookies, one chick-flick and thirty-seven minutes of looking through his pictures later, she was officially thinking about him and her. But one train, two buses, four blocks and fifty-two minutes of general Facebooking later, she discovered something.

All of those guys, every single one that she's had some type of romantic thought about within the last year and change, all have a connection with one boy.

Eric Zimmerman.

Eric Zimmerman, the blonde haired, blue eyed poster child for hipsters everywhere. They've had about three conversations which are all a blur in her mind, and more if you count asking for the Linguistics notes a conversation.

Eric Zimmerman, the popular, outgoing, artistically gifted young man who she pays absolutely no attention to.

But when she thought about it, he isn't a complete nobody to her. She can recall one moment with him that she'll probably remember forever.

The summer before her senior year in high school was extremely difficult, and she succumbed to the difficulties in shame by using her arm as a canvas and a razor as her precious paintbrush.

The strokes of red paint dried but alas, the painting remained as a bitter reminder of the folly that she'd committed. People always commented, what was your inspiration? Where'd you get the idea to paint such a picture? How did you acquire such talent? And she'd always say cats, or rusty gates, too old and worn to do anything but leave it's mark on her tragic work of art.

But not him.

He didn't do any of that, in fact he did quite the opposite.

Of course he noticed, who wouldn't (she figured wearing long sleeves all the time would further add suspicion). He noticed, and he let her know that he'd noticed in a way that catered to his benefit rather than her own. He wanted to see, so he did. He picked her arm up and stared in what was possibly the most obvious yet discreet way possible. Then, with the shake of his head and a tsk on his lips, he set her arm back down.

After the initial shock (as she was speechless, what was she to say to nothing?) and well hidden embarrassment, he continued their conversation, as if nothing happened.

It took her almost a week of relapsed shame and disappointment in herself to fully understand what had happened between them.

And in that moment, she fell in love with him a little.

ii.

I munched on a cookie and tapped my feet against the linoleum floor of Camilla's kitchen. I was bored and hungry and the cookie isn't cutting it. Camilla milled about her kitchen idly picking up random ingredients to read the back. Jia was in the bedroom getting dressed.

We had picked an outfit for her to wear today. She had a blind date that her sister had set up. I voted for her to put her clothes on first as it would mess her much-worked-on hair up and probably smudge her make-up, but we couldn't figure out what to put on her, so we opted for that last.

I heard the door creak and Camilla and I scuttled to see how our Barbie doll turned out.

She was a masterpiece.

iii.

She was late to her Urban Studies class. She was late to her Urban Studies class and it was raining. It was raining and windy and she hates the rain and strong winds. It was Wednesday.

She hates Wednesdays.

Wednesdays are always bad for her; something terrible always happened on a Wednesday. She hurried to her seat in the middle of the room to avoid being seen by Jessie because she knew that her hair was a mess.

Class rolled on and she almost fell asleep twice. She tapped her pencil absent-mindedly until the professor- a short stocky woman- dismissed everyone. She was always the first one out- at least first in terms of her and Jesse. She walked briskly down the hall trying to get as far away from Urban Studies as possible.

She would have achieved her goal, her goal of getting out, meeting Camilla and Jia and disappearing somewhere far, far away from Jesse, but she noticed (and she really, really wishes she hadn't) she'd forgotten her textbook in class.

She pondered how important that textbook really was. Does she need it? Is it really that important? Can't she just get it tomorrow?

Then she remembered that she paid a ton of money for her college books and she moaned dishearteningly as she about-faced.

She neared her classroom and held her breath. There were still plenty of people there, including Jesse and...Eric Zimmerman.

She eyed the pair; what was he doing there? Did she care? She tried to make herself not.

But then Eric looked up, into her eyes, baby blues into wide eyed browns. She squeaked and ducked into the classroom. With her heart racing she ambled over to the textbook tucked neatly under her desk-chair. She grabbed the book and made sure the coast was clear before making her way toward the library to meet her friends.

iv.

Amanda greeted me with a smile and I returned it whole heartedly. It was a warm Friday afternoon. It threw me off guard how the weather could just change from one extremity to another given the terrible weather on Wednesday.

"Hey," she said, "are you ready?"

"No."

She laughed and slapped me playfully. I agreed to go out with her because everyone else was busy and I hate being alone on Fridays. It's not that I don't love hanging out with Amanda, it's just that I don't like hanging out with Amanda and her boyfriend, Ian.

It's also not that I disliked Ian. In fact I love Ian, he's cool. I disliked hanging out with them both, at the same time, by ourselves. I become a really depressed, easily annoyed and grossed out (from the kissing) third-wheel.

I also didn't like scary movies. Amanda was making me watch a scary movie.

I don't think I like Amanda.

v.

He wasn't all that bad looking. He had some acne and sometimes his face became red, but really, he was very good looking.

Of course, he was a douche bag-according to her friend Edna anyway. A man-whore of sorts, and to be honest, she wasn't all that surprised. With his charm and sense of humor, he could pretty much have anyone-anyone easily manipulatable at least.

She guessed that she was one of those easily manipulated girls.

"Sarah," he called. She doesn't know why, but she turned around to find him staring at her. She blinked and moved out of the way of a group of girls trying to get past, the volleyball team.

"Me?" he ushered himself around the team gracefully until he came to a full stop in front of her. He leaned on the wall cooly and she tried to find a spot in the crowded hallway to look at instead of his face.

"Yea," he said between chews of gum. She smelled Winter-mint.

"That's not my name."

He blinked, stopped chewing for just a moment and said,

"Oh...I'm sorry. Do you have the notes from yesterday?"

She squinted at him. He wasn't even going to ask her real name? What a jerk, she thought. She stared blankly at his mouth, still chewing that sticky blue substance.

"Can I have some gum?"

And then he laughed. It wasn't really a laugh, not a laugh that occurs when your friend trips and falls, but a chuckle, brisk and short but all the same attractive.

"Then will you give me the notes?"

"I don't know. Give me the gum first and we'll see."

"What if I said I didn't have any gum."

"Then I'd say I have no notes."

He leaned off of the wall then, a smile (smirk?) playing on his lips. She laughed herself but she couldn't tell whether it was what was happening or her nerves. He dug around in his pants pocket-khaki skinny jeans with brown boat shoes- and conjured up a little black case of gum. Still grinning, and still chewing, he slapped the piece into her open palm, which she proceeded to put into her mouth, crumpling the wrapper and sticking it into her pockets.

She then proceeded to walk away.

"Hey! The notes!"

She waved at him without turning around and said, "I wasn't in class yesterday!"

She could almost hear his smile when he responded with an,

"Aww, man, that's messed up."

vi.

I don't really know how I ended up here. Here as in, in front of Eric, standing outside the Brookshaw café, out in the pouring rain without an umbrella.

I remember sitting on my couch, comfortable, snuggled under my favorite tan blanket. I remember opening the door for a frantic Jeremy-Camilla's long time admirer whom she secretly has a crush on but will never admit- to let him see her because he has to, needs to tell her that he loves her, that he never should have let her go out with that douche Derek, that he's right for her instead.

I even remember waking Camilla up by pulling her too long, too curly hair a few (ten) times, and dragging her out of bed for her own lifetime movie special.

I remember leaving, too depressed with the fact that my entire social circle has a significant other-as of now- except for me.

What I don't remember is the news saying it was going to rain. I don't remember forgetting my jacket and instead having to settle for a thin hoodie. I don't remember walking all the way down to Brookshaw's and ever seeing Eric Zimmerman around these parts of town.

But when I did see him, for some reason, my heart started beating out of tune and I blamed it on the cold chill of the rain and my brisk walking to get out of the terrible pouring water.

He held up a purple umbrella and he had his hand in his pants pocket. He was wearing his Ray Band glasses that has become a constant thing ever since after spring break. He gave me a blank look and I squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze.

And then the rain stopped. But it really didn't, Eric just, somehow, without me noticing, moved toward me and held his umbrella above my soaking wet head.

"You know, this is how people get sick. Usually, an umbrella would help."

I would have laughed, I would have had a biting comeback, I would have done anything but blink and stare because there was obviously a light tone in his obviously soft voice that obviously called for a humorous situation.

But I didn't. I didn't laugh, I didn't smile, I didn't even shove him playfully. I just blinked. I blinked and said,

"Thank you...Eric."

It was a half an hour later and I was sipping at my hot, hot chocolate in a bit reticently in a coffee shop I'd never been in before. It was out of place for me and I think Eric noticed.

"So, I'm guessing you didn't just leave the warmth and dryness of your oh-so-cozy-home to walk in the freezing rain because you enjoy whatever cold and flu you can get from it?"

I blinked. And shrugged. And sighed.

"My roommate is having an underpants party with her new boyfriend and I kind of don't want to be present for that."

He smiled, then he fiddled with his napkin placed under his mug.

"Jealous because you can't have you own underpants party?"

I shrugged again, and for some reason, I told him yes.

But why was he here? It didn't seem like the 'cool hipster guy' thing to do, to take a stroll around the more modest parts of the city in the rain when I was positive that he has a car.

I felt it only right to ask him what he was doing here.

He hesitated and ripped a piece of napkin. Then he took that piece and ripped it into tinier pieces. He shrugged.

"Girl problems..." It was left hanging in the air and the tension was tangible.

I resisted the urge to say, 'oh hipster boy doesn't have a lay for one night?' and instead said,

"Guess we all have those days-or cold rainy nights."

For some strange reason probably due to an unseen force of nature, I ended up talking to him about my crappy love life-or lack thereof. For some strange reason he responded with anecdotes of his far more interesting (not-so-crappy-but-at-the-moment-at-a-standstill) love life. For some reason he laughed at my half-assed jokes and for some reason my heart beat out of tune again.

For some reason, a reason that I could not possibly come up with a logical conclusion as to why, he invited me back to his place and for some strange, strange reason, I said yes.

Soon enough I was tiptoeing across the cold linoleum of his kitchen floor in a too big gray T-shirt and borrowed blue plaid boxer shorts.

I popped open the fridge and searched for a 'big blue bowl of chicken stuff, it's so good', finding it behind a carton of expired milk.

"Oh, you found it." he said as he walked into the kitchen still clad in his street clothes minus his boat shoes and black pea-coat. He took the bowl ('Why a bowl?' 'I don't know, it was the first thing I saw'), removed the plastic covering the top and placed it into the microwave for two minutes.

I sat on top of his counter, next to the sink and stared vacantly out the window down onto the wet streets. A lonely cat ran past and I felt a twinge of sadness for the feline, the cat didn't have a person to allow it to step paw inside their house.

"So, yeah...thanks again, for the dry clothes," I said. I was extremely aware of my chest that was, other than the oversized shirt, unprotected from the outside elements, such as the unforgiving cold. I folded my arms, uncomfortable.

"Yea, no problem," he folded his arms as well-probably for different reasons- and leaned against the frame of the kitchen that lead into the living room, "it looks better on you than it does on me."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever," We laughed until the beep of the microwave, signaling a hot leftover chicken, interrupted us.

It was baffling really, how a wet windy night and the remains of what was once chicken could spark an interest that was never fully realized before. How Eric and I ended up skin to cold goose-bump ridden skin was beyond me.

I almost felt ashamed to say that I liked it.

I never did this sort of thing. I'm not entirely sure how it even started. It seems that this night is full of 'I don't know how's' and 'getting stranger by the minute' happenings.

One moment I'm sitting on his couch, feet curled under my body trying to warm my ever cold toes, munching with my fingers on the best leftover chicken I've ever had the serendipity to happen upon (given that I hate leftover food in general). Eric sat next to me flipping through the channels from T.V. show to ever so terrible reality show until he stopped on one of my favorites. True Blood.

He laughed at my excitement. He shook his head at my girlish squeals for the "overdone totally clichéd blonde bad boy with typical lack of care for anyone but himself and of course the main character'. I laughed at him.

"It's weird because I don't usually go for blondes," I said "but Eric...Eric is really tasty..."

"Oh I am, am I?" I paused. And then I realized. I laughed at the coincidence, I hadn't even realized that they had the same name. He smirked at me and continued, "whoa, slow down there Chrisney, we hardly know each other," he laughed then, a whole hearted, head thrown back kind of laugh that I knew was real and sincere and not mocking or insolent. And then I realized something.

He had said my name. It wasn't that he said so much as how he said it. I like the way he says it. The way he says my name, it rolled off of his tongue like a metal spoon in little wispy, feathery noises that made it sound like the most beautiful name I've ever heard, as if I hadn't heard it millions of times before. For a moment I had to remind myself that the name was mine, and that Eric Zimmerman of all people was saying it. That was the first I'd heard him say my name ever.

I didn't even know he knew it.

"That's...not what I meant..." I finished lamely. He smirked at me and nodded his head and suddenly I was kissing him.

It took me a moment to register that I was kissing him and that he wasn't, in fact, the one kissing me. I did not, however, register that he was, for some reason kissing me back and when I realized that what I was doing was incredibly stupid, I pulled away looking away from him bashfully.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say, I don't know what came over me. But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I just sat there in the-but for the low buzzing of the television-silence of his living room in what was now an uncomfortable squatting position. I felt nothing but my legs slowly losing feeling underneath me and my heart pounding so hard in my chest I was sure he heard it. I saw nothing but the white of his hand gripping the edge of the couch. I heard nothing but our ragged breathing and could think of nothing more than stupid stupid stupid so incredibly Stupid!

But then, I heard the shuffling of fabric and saw that white hand move from my line of vision and I almost knew that he was getting up to give me back my still wet clothes and throw me out of his apartment and never ask for his clothes back because it's just too awkward after tonight...

I was wrong though.

I was wrong because he didn't stand up. He didn't go into the bathroom and pick my clothes off of the radiator. He didn't throw me out and lock the door.

He kissed me. That hand moved from the couch to the side of my face, still cold, and tingling from his somehow warm digits. Then it moved to my damp hair and then I don't even know what happened because he was kissing me and he wasn't mad or throwing me out into the rain or not asking for his clothes back but kissing me. And his thin lips were barely there but they were all I could focus on because they were warm and soft and on my lips which were surely cold and slightly rough due to weeks of peeling the skin off of them with my teeth...

And his hands sent a shiver up my spine because they weren't resting comfortably on the couch arms or sitting there in his lap but rather moving their way up (and under) my (his) shirt. And I gasped but it was a good kind of gasp because I was cold and he was warm and it was raining outside and I always did hate the rain.

But I think that I can come to like this.

The next morning was as awkward as I thought it would be.

The sun was hitting my eyelids and interrupting a rather odd dream involving moustache hair and teen drivers. My arms were curled over a warm-extremely warm- pillow that I was cuddled against. A sound behind me, a truck engine it sounded like, whirred and a breeze blew over me and I questioned why I didn't bother to close the window.

The breeze came again and I wondered if the weather was being bipolar again because it's spring and it was supposed to be seventy-two today... I realized that it wasn't a breeze and it wasn't a truck engine at all that disturbed my peace, but a fan that I always leave on to fall asleep.

But the fan I leave on doesn't revolve.

I blocked the opposing sunlight out of my eyes and the pillow beside me coughed.

I realized that I was having a very slow morning.

I looked up to find blue eyes staring back at me. I blinked, unsure of what to do, very aware of my wildly beating heart and trying so very hard not to think about what I did-what I was too sober to forget.

I was about to say something (anything to distract myself from the thought of him and me and cold skin on warm fumbling through the spacious apartment) but I didn't have to (thank God) because he stretched with his long limbs like a cat on a lazy day (while I tried to avoid his skin touching mine) and said, "Hey,"

I stared at the foot of the bed and managed a stiff "Hey," in response. I tried to focus on his footboard, tried to count the rings in the wood to see if I could guess how old the tree was before they cut it down, hoping that anything involving math and numbers would slow things down because it always seemed to work when I was in high school.

It didn't seem to work this time because before long I felt a shift on my side and I tried desperately to look as normal as possible while trying to hide the naked flesh that's sure to be revealed if he moves the covers any further away from me.

I never even thought about the other naked flesh I could be seeing.

Eric seemed as natural as water and as comfortable as can be naked as he does when he's actually clothed and I turned my head toward his curtains hoping to accomplish the feat of not fainting because I actually saw his stark backside in the sunlight-instead of just feeling around, and hoping to finish counting the stripes accentuating his curtains before said sunlight goes down.

I counted two before I heard him yell that my clothes are actually dry from across the apartment. When did he even leave the room?

I gathered his blanket around me like a gown and waddled into the living room because I figured it'd be less awkward than putting his clothes back on only to have to take them off again.

My clothes were laid neatly across the back of the reclinable chair-everything. The pants, the shirt, even the bra and panties. I reddened at the idea of Eric Zimmerman delicately handling my delicates...

I heard the faucet in the bathroom turn on and looked both ways before my eyes landed back on my clothes.

Was I just to get dressed out here? I looked around again, feeling like a man on death row and contemplated taking them back into his room. But if I did, I thought, wouldn't it be too personal?

And kind of a pussy move considering I just slept with the guy, now I'm too embarressed to be seen naked in front of him? I shook my head already knowing the answer, but swallowed it down because obviously he isn't too ashamed to prance around in front of me.

I shedded the bed sheet and quickly slipped on my underwear, hoping, praying that he was brushing his teeth and not washing his hands so that he wouldn't walk out and see me half-naked, red as a tomato and obviously uncomfortable in my own skin. The bra was still not quite dry but I felt too bashful to care I just readjusted it and slipped on my shirt and hoodie.

The door to the bathroom opened as I was fastening the button on my jeans and I turned around quickly but immediately regretted it because Eric was still naked and still walking as if it were a Sunday in church. I tried not to turn my head away, only failing slightly.

"I see you wasted no time," he said and laughed good naturedly. I should have laughed, because it was a joke, but couldn't bring myself to do it. Something about the way he said it made me feel dumb and stupid and prudish.

I heard my heart beating in my ears and closed my eyes for a split second before deciding that that was no good because then I thought of me and Eric again, thought of the darkness, the dampness, my cold skin warming continuously as his fingers, mouth, body pressed against mine...

I lingered by the recliner as he retreated into his room wondering frantically where my shoes were. I found them by the door looking worse for wear and as I slipped my right foot in, I knew today just wasn't my day.

My shoes were still soaked and they made a disgusting sploshing sound with each step I took and with each step I took I felt smaller and smaller until I felt like the small children Camilla loves to baby so much .

I breifly wondered if it was a Wednesday.

I turned to find Eric-fully clothed- looking at me as if I'd just told him I was going out for coffee. I felt my heart speed up (as if it were possible) and my eyes kept darting to the carpet to Eric to the carpet to the lamp to Eric and back to the carpet because I didn't know what to say and 'Thanks for the chicken, the sex was amazing by the way, but I have to go now because I don't really know you,' just sounded wrong and made me look like a slut, but I'm not a slut, I'm not.

I just did something really stupid.

I remember saying to myself, to my friends, when I was younger, around sixteen, that I would rather have flings; I'd rather have at least one night stand because it sounded fun and relationships are just too hard to keep and feelings suck when they're too intense...

I remember that, and now I wonder why I never thought of the conflicting feelings I'd have with myself the morning after.

I was still searching for something to say, something not awkward, something not weird, something that didn't make me sound like a slut (and a bad one at that because a slut would have been gone by now), but I didn't have to because, yet again, Eric Zimmerman steps in for me.

"Your shoes are still wet? Do you want me to drive you home?"

I should have said no. I should have shrugged and said something clever like 'No, I'm pretty tough. I cross the street without looking both ways, so I can manage'. But I didn't.

I didn't do any of that. I just stared at my gross shoes and thought of the prospect of walking all the way home- which is on the other side of town, in my hobo clothes that I specifically reserve for home affairs.

I wonder if Camilla even notices that I'm gone.

"Hey, so," Eric started, snapping me out of my reverie which I wish didn't happen because the idea of being a third-wheel to Camilla and her (most likely as of now) signifigant other is even better than the palpable awkwardness that has settled in this car.

Eric laughs, and even through my nerves and slight shaking I can still pick up on the beauty that is his genuine, honest laughter, "I...uh..."

I figured now's a good a time as any to say something-as long as it stopped him from saying what was coming next.

I like you, just not that way. Last night was a moment of bad judgement on both our parts. Let's just forget this whole thing happened and get back to our everyday lives.

"Oh, aha, yea," I started, hoping my fake smile was convincing, "I never do this sort of thing, I don't know what came over me. We should just forget it, I know you have a girlfriend and all..."

It fell out of my mouth like paper weight. I never meant for it to sound that way, but I guess there was no other way to say it than the awkward way.

"I don't have a girlfriend?" It sounded like a question, daring me to elaborate.

"Last night you said..." I paused remembering what he said, "girl troubles?"

He laughed then, and I had a fleeting thought that I'd never get tired of hearing it.

"I said I had girl troubles, which is true, not that those troubles were with my girlfriend," he managed out.

I stared at him, eyebrow raised, still not understanding. He sighed and I realized that I was staring.

"I don't have a girlfriend." he said.

"Oh," it was all I could manage. I felt weird and stupid now.

I stared down at my shoes on the floor wishing Eric would turn the music on the radio up louder because I hated the silence and I liked this song and maybe he liked it too.

"I love this song,"he said and I looked up surprised as his hands reached for the dial. I focused on the blonde hairs on his arm before it retracted again.

I suddenly felt small again and was reminded that I had no idea what to say and that I should say something because it's not normal to have sex with someone you hardly know and then have that person drive you home without so much as a word spoken in between.

My heart rate picked up as I realized something horrible.

I just had sex with Eric Zimmerman.

I just had sex with Eric Zimmerman as in I've just lost my virginity...to Eric Zimmerman.

I'd just had my first kiss...

I shook that thought out because it didn't matter because I'd just had at least twenty more to go along with it.

I paled then because the guilt, the shame, the horror was starting to set in and I suddenly felt my stomach rise up to my esophagus. I tried choking the vomit back down, but it was hard to with the lack of oxygen my brain was receiving at the moment. I only half registered that it was quite rude to wind down the windows in a car that is obviously not mine without asking the driver first, but I didn't care because I was about to faint, or throw up, or die, or something...

I could feel my heart in my head and I closed my eyes hoping that Eric was so focused on the road, he wouldn't see the extremely uncomfortable, slowly turning green girl sitting but a foot away from him.

My virginity. Gone. To a guy that I don't even know the phone number of.

Thrown away.

But isn't this what I always wanted? To lose it to someone with no strings attached so as to avoid the cloying, sickly sweet affection usually tied together with a signifigant other? To have it be over with, with someone who I can trust, someone who I don't have to hold hands with in public, someone who I love but am not in love with?

And I'm not in love with Eric. But I don't love him either.

I don't know if I can trust him. I don't know if he's a huge player who collects the bra and panties of his most recent conquers. I don't know if he has some type of disease that he spreads around on purpose, angry at the world because he has it and everyone else should have it too...

What do I know about him?

Nothing.

"Are you...okay?" I looked over to him. He looked uncomfortable, which is a huge turnaround from the indifference he posed earlier when he was prancing around in his birthday suit. Maybe he was afraid that I was going to throw up in his car.

"You're not some kind of...serial killer are you?" I asked.

To my surprise, he smiled.

We were sitting in the same booth in the same coffee shop from yesterday night. Eric sat across from me in the same manner as he did before, playing with the napkin under his mug. I asked if I was the rebound girl and inwardly patted myself on the back for making it sound way cooler and funnier than I'd intended. He smiled and said that there was nothing to rebound from and then he asked if I was really that uncomfortable or did his body just gross me out.

I laughed at that, "Dude, your body is disgusting," because I couldn't very well tell him that he had just taken my virginity (because that would mean admitting that I was a virgin in the first place, which wouldn't normally be a problem, but given the circumstances, I chose not to).

"No, it's just," I started, "I told you, I don't do this sort of thing usually. And you just make it seem like it's as normal as drinking water,"

"Yea, I am kind of a man-whore," he said.

I smiled at him from under my eyelashes. A genuine smile, and he returned it with a smile of his own.

When I got home Camilla wasn't there and I wondered where she could have gone but then thought that her absence is probably for the best because that meant postponing my telling her of what happened between me and Eric and me having to see her reaction which would probably be laced with surprise and disappointment.

I threw myself on my bed and finally allowed the thoughts and feelings and images from last night to sink in.

I just had sex with Eric Zimmerman.I just had sex with Eric Zimmerman in his apartment after a chance encounter in the rain.

I'd enjoyed it. I know I did, but it felt wrong to admit it. It felt wrong to think of Eric picking me up and making way toward his bedroom. It felt wrong to imagine his mouth on my belly button, on my chest, on my neck, on my mouth. It felt wrong to remember his his hot, hot, scorching hot fingers burning a trail as they made themselves familiar with each and every scar. It felt wrong to associate those scars with pleasant feelings because they aren't pleasant and they should never be.

But last night, for some reason they were. Everything was...pleasant. Fantastic, exciting, exilherating.

Simply wonderful.

By the time Camilla came home I had forgotten that I was supposed to be feeling guilty. I had forgotten that it was supposed to be wrong. I had forgotten that there was supposed to be no strings attatched.

Because by the time Camilla came home, I had officially fallen for Eric Zimmerman.