Our Story ... Chapter 3

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Diane,” I said, sheepishly.

“Sorry?”

Why is he sorry? I thought.

“I can’t hear you,” he said.

“Di —ane,” I yelled in two syllables, amplifying my Kentucky twang. “So, you’re from England?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m an English major.” I cringed. Did I really just say that? What an idiot!

“What does KA stand for?” he asked, looking at the initials on my oversized fraternity jacket.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, embarrassed.

He looked confused.

“Kappa Alpha, I think … I found it,” I said.

“Oh.”

We continued our awkward introductory chat as well as we could, all the while competing with the noise and our dueling accents.

Then, I had to ask, “If you are a new student here, what year are you?”

“A freshman,” he said.

“Oh, how old are you?” I continued to probe.

“Eighteen … What about you?”

“Twenty-one. I’m a senior, “ I said soberly.

There was a pause as we both let this set in.

Finally, “Would you like to dance?”

“Sure,” I said.

It was a fast dance to something pounding and upbeat by the Bee Gees or Donna Summer. Seventies’ music was the best. But, it was a decade that sort of lost its way in dance; there were no patterns or steps to follow; you just moved, and you really didn’t know where to look. Still it was fun.

Then, the music slowed to Chicago’s Color My World, one of my favorite songs. When you’ve been dancing a fast dance with someone and the music slows down, there is always that awkward moment when you both or one of you makes the decision to either walk off the floor or come together for the slow dance.

I wasn’t about to walk away, and I’m glad he didn’t either.

As we approached each other, I was struck by how handsome he was. His milky white complexion and blue eyes were set off by his dark hair, but even more captivating was his smile which was wide and friendly. As he pulled me in, his cologne was citrusy and fresh. I noticed he was wearing a chain around his neck, a medal of St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.

We kept each other company the entire night, and as the party came to an end, everyone scrambled for rides back to campus. A friend of Tom’s had a big boat-like car, likely a Pontiac or Buick, and we piled in. There were at least five of us in the large backseat. No seat belts. No worries … about icy roads, or promises made to God, or oh, my goodness, Ellen!

When the car came to a stop outside Mignon Tower, my dormitory, I squeezed my way out of the car door onto the sidewalk, and I heard Martin call out in his unmistakable British accent, “What’s yo’ numba?”

“9143,” I said.

I’ll never see him again, I thought.