What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?. Jill Knapp

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СКАЧАТЬ hard ass and had actually called out my friend Olivia for checking the time on her cell phone last week, embarrassing her in front of the entire cohort. Scarred by the memory, I quickly ran a brush through my hair while simultaneously applying my foundation. A few minutes later, I was good to go (well, good enough).

      I grabbed my purse and yelled “Bye!” to no one in particular, slamming the door behind me. As soon as I got into the elevator, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it from my purse, desperately hoping it was one of my friends telling me class was cancelled, but instead it was a text message from my boyfriend Nicholas.

      It read, “Can’t wait 2 C U tomorrow honey, I’m counting down hrs!”

      I dropped the phone back into my bag and exited the elevator on the ground floor. I started feeling a quick pang of guilt for ignoring the text, but Nicholas would understand how busy I was and I would re-cap my day with him, in full detail tonight, on the phone. It was comforting to know I could go about my day without having to check in with anyone twenty times, and that he had his own life too. Not to mention we had an undeniable chemistry between us that seemed to have stood the test of time. Or at least the past couple of years. I smiled to myself as I pictured his wide, soulful eyes, his ever-present second-day stubble (which I always referred to as, Oops! I didn’t realize I’m so sexy, stubble) and his strong, well-toned arms that just always managed to keep their firmness, no matter how many times he missed the gym. Combine all of that with my favorite thing he did, the way he traced my lips with his finger right before he was about to kiss me, and I was convinced I was in a perfect relationship. I let out a breathy sigh and let the warmth wash over me as I thought about how lucky I was to have such a great guy in my life. Sexy, caring, and smart. What more could you ask for?

      Thunder cracking above my head interrupted this solitary pleasant thought. When I got outside I was greeted by a blanket of humid rain and I had, of course, left my umbrella upstairs. I glanced back at the elevator doors that were quickly closing. Since I lived on 18th floor of my apartment building, I rationalized that I had already gone too far to turn around and made my way to 6th Avenue in the pouring rain.

      My sneakers did nothing to protect me against the river-sized potholes littering the streets of New York. Each passing minute was more disgusting than the last as I told myself I was going to be sitting with wet socks for the next two hours.

      By the time I got to the school, I was drenched and feeling even more morose than when I had woken up. I darted into the ladies’ room to use the hand dryer to dry off at least to a comfortable level. When I opened the door, I sighed. There was a line of two girls in front of me, ignoring my soaked state, and gabbing on about having drinks at Crocodile Lounge later tonight. I started to shiver and one of them gave me an uncomfortable side-look. They finally decided to leave and I bent down to fit under the small, inefficient dryer. Feeling a little homeless, I flipped my head over, figuring my hair was the most important thing to get try. Then I reached down, pulled off my sneakers, and let the hot air run over my argyle socks. It was pointless, those babies were done for. I tossed them in the trash, deciding I’d be more comfortable without them.

      Two more girls walked into the bathroom, heading straight to the mirrors. I recognized them, but not enough to say hi and start small-talk. Definitely not while I was looking like a drowned rat. After a few more minutes under the hand dryer, I ran my fingers through my puffed-up curls to help smooth them down. Reaching into my purse, I opted for a quick refreshing slick of clear lip-gloss, and a smudge of black eye-liner for good measure. I thought I looked normal enough to start my day.

      While I was in the process of giving myself a mini make-over, I overheard the two girls talking about how difficult they were finding this semester. They were conversing in a loud whisper, but with rapid speech. The brunette with the secretary glasses looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment, the red-head with the expensive shoes sympathetically rubbing her back. They both let out a sigh, and then made each other swear they wouldn’t tell anyone else, out of fear of seeming weak. I shrugged and collecting my belongings off the sink basin. The girls seemed normal enough, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe you had to be cold and overly-determined to survive here. I shivered both at the thought, and from my clinging wet clothes.

      They exited the bathroom, and finally I was alone. I grimaced while silently sympathizing with their pain, making a mental note that I wasn’t the only one suffering this year. Turning to the mirror, I allowed myself to stare a few seconds longer, then shook my head and made my way out into the hall.

      As I walked down the long, tiled hallway toward my classroom, I felt a memory hit me out of nowhere. I remembered Nick and I, hands intertwined, walking across campus at Rutgers. The sun was shining as we lightly strolled across the pavement. He was anxious for me to meet his friends for the first time; he kept apologizing for how they would inevitably embarrass him. I could still hear the birds chirping on that unusually warm April day. I had stopped walking for a moment, waiting for a gaggle of sorority girls to pass us, and then brushed a strand of brown hair from his face.

      “Stop being so nervous,” I said, rubbing his hand in mine. “Everything’s going to go great. We’ll eat, we’ll bond, we’ll crack jokes at your expense. How bad could it be?”

      Nick offered me a laugh and sheepishly looked at the floor. I thought it was sweet, how much he cared about his friends and me getting along. That was the moment I knew I was in love with him.

      The sound of a guy cursing at his cellphone broke me out of my daydream, and I quickly remembered where I was. I took a deep breath and opened the large brown door to my lecture hall.

      I gingerly walked into the classroom hoping no one would notice my disheveled appearance, and took a quick glance around the room. The class was already going on, but thankfully my friend Michael had saved a seat for me. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to smooth a deep wrinkle out of my shirt. He turned around slightly and gave me a subtle nod. I nodded back, and then quickly ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to further tame the nest of rain-soaked curls. It was no use; I’d have to sport this Bette Midler from the 80s look for the rest of this class.

      I had met Michael only two or three months ago, when school started; it was getting harder to keep track. He and I were in every single class together, which wasn’t unusual given that our program in Biology and Behavioral Science only had forty students in it. This meant quick bonding but also steep competition. It kind of reminded me of how you’d make close friendships in summer camp, but then completely forget to call the person come October.

      Michael and I had become fast friends after he referenced an old B movie, which just so happened to be one of my favorite films, during the third day of classes. I felt an instant connection that moment, which was a little out of character for me. I usually had a hard time opening up to people. After a good laugh, he composed himself and formally stuck out his hand.

      “Michael Rathbourne,” he said with a warm smile and perfectly straight teeth. “And you are?”

      His confidence had left me a little intimidated. Apart from going on a job interview, I had never formally introduced myself with a handshake before. I studied Michael as he held his warm smile. I couldn’t help but notice his full lips and dark-brown eyes, with tiny specs of gold if you looked closely enough. He was dressed well, wearing what looked like an expensive button-down and designer jeans.

      “Amalia Hastings,” I said, trying my best to sound as confident as he had. I could feel my voice crack as I uttered the last syllable of my name. I squared my shoulders a bit and smiled.

      “Well, Amalia Hastings,” he repeated my name, still holding my hand in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His hand was soft, but still masculine. When he pulled away, I remember feeling slightly confused by the experience.

      Michael СКАЧАТЬ